


Spark

by Enchantable



Series: Firebird (Accessible Version) [5]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 107,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27415213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: “How was it?” She asks.“Uneventful,” he relays back, “there was no killing,” she smiles at him and he wonders if it’s the relief in his voice, “though they weren’t happy to be left in the cold.”“Being happy must be a strange feeling for them,” Pym says, sarcasm edging her voice.“Very strange,” he agrees, settling the new blanket on Goliath.
Series: Firebird (Accessible Version) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917388
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Firebird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413787) by [Enchantable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable). 



“Stop them,” Lancelot tells Arthur and brings Goliath around, “we’re leaving tracks.”

Arthur gives the command as Lancelot looks at their traveling party. Thankfully it’s not big. Unfortunately neither Cumber nor Uther nor anyone of great importance was in the latest group they attacked. Even this many would seem unnecessary. The snow that’s started to fall is a light powder, it could melt away. But the less information they have about the party going out, the better.

“Get single file,” he starts.

“No, lets spread out if this looks like regular people on the road they’ll suspect less.”

Lancelot considers the argument and then nods, Arthur has a point. He pulls Goliath to the side and rides him further than their tracks. He’s distinct to Lancelot but his hoof prints look the same as any of the other horses. He weaves him in and out, hoping to look more like a drunk or someone who just rode along the road. He walks Goliath back, though it gives the others a head start. He needs Goliath’s tracks to just look like someone walked. Midway he dismounts and wraps one of his boot in a length of cloth, resuming the road with an odd, limped gait.

“Smart idea,” Arthur says, jumping off his horse.

“You should go ahead,” he says.

“I’ll walk with you, better if we make more tracks,” he says.

Lancelot wavers for a moment before nodding. The snow isn’t falling too heavily yet and Arthur is dressed more for the cold than he has been. He’s remarked on it several times, much to Lancelot’s surprise. He would have expected Arthur to sing his way into warm accommodations. They keep their eyes open for any sign of trouble but there’s nothing but the light snow. Their footprints just speak of two travelers heading down this road. It’s an odd thing to contrast with what they actually are. The others ride ahead but Gawain waits for them at the bend that takes them to the port. They walk slightly down the other bend and then a path of green vines lifts them up and brings them over to the road they need to be on. They mount and continue on their way.

“You don’t seem to be hibernating,” Lancelot points out to Gawain.

“Not yet,” he says, “though perhaps not at all.”

“This is a new winter for all of us,” Arthur remarks.

Lancelot sees the projectile out of the corner of his eye and ducks for it to sail past.

Arthur has a point.

Squirrel dives behind the wall and he can hear Bors whispering frantically to him. They must have spoken to the others and know how uneventful this was. Gawain snickers, though he tries to hide it and Arthur dismounts with a surprising amount of silence. There’s a paltry amount of snow but it’s enough to make it into a ball. He coughs lightly and one of them pops out, only to get the snowball chucked at his arm. There’s a moment of hushed silence.

“Get him!”

There’s a flurry of snowballs suddenly that make Goliath huff somewhat nervously. Lancelot puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him from the ruckus to the barn. It’s been uneventful but the snow was unplanned. He needs to tend to him. Under the roof, he shakes the snow from his boots and cloak and leads Goliath to his stall. He’s surprised to find it already occupied, though he knows he shouldn’t be.

“Welcome back,” Pym says, setting down the blanket she’s fixed a strap to and standing up.

She looks as viciously relieved as he feels. No-one has died. None of them were captured and the ones who were, they were left with their lives and in their empty carriage to await rescue. Nothing bad happened. There was no reason to feel concerned but after a few days, he finds that being back here, seeing her, is the first time he feels like he can relax. They read each other well enough for him to see his emotions reflected back on her.

“Thank you,” he says.

“We weren’t planning on so much snow, I fixed Goliath’s blanket,” she explains. Goliath bats her affectionately, “we’re making sure everyone’s warm.” He hears another stall door close, “Bedivere’s helping.”

“Squirrel—“ he starts.

“Is a boy still, he should be out playing with his friends,” she cuts in.

Lancelot nods, not sure why he doesn’t like the idea of Bedivere volunteering to help. It’s probably the idea of something as evil as the Church influencing Pym. Though he knows that Bedivere is not one of them, not really. Not anymore. If he can be trusted then eventually Bedivere will earn that trust too. Pym doesn’t move and so he sets about undoing Goliath’s tack and getting him settled. Pym’s watched him do it enough to help.

“How was it?” She asks.

“Uneventful,” he relays back, “there was no killing,” she smiles at him and he wonders if it’s the relief in his voice, “though they weren’t happy to be left in the cold.”

“Being happy must be a strange feeling for them,” Pym says, sarcasm edging her voice.

“Very strange,” he agrees, settling the new blanket on Goliath and doing up the straps. He turns and looks at Pym, “are you ready to let me out of your sight?”

He doesn’t mean it as an accusation but as a genuine question. She looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head. He nods in acknowledgement. He can understand her frustration and he doesn’t think anything he has to do are things she’s not allowed to be aware of. Not that anything really is. They have an agreement to tell each other things, including those that might upset the other. It’s better to know than to find out in the heat of another moment and have to explain. The opens is still foreign to him, but much like other things he finds himself adjusting.

“I need to speak to Guinevere,” he says, “we need to figure out what our next strike should be.”

She nods and follows him back. Guinevere has taken over the parsonage where the priest lived and turned it into her place. Like many things to do with the Paladins, it’s much larger and more elaborate than one would associate with the Church. There’s room enough for all of them. The port is an easier place to be than the country church. Though it does mean there are more people around. People who don’t seem to care much either way whose in charge, as long as they’re protected and looked after. Pym is Guinevere’s first subject in these lands but now there are others. They are wary of him, but few recognize him enough to be afraid of him.

In many ways that is the strangest part of all of this.

He’s used to people being afraid of him. He’s barely become accustom to some Fey not being afraid of him, but even those who know of the Church don’t immediately associate him with them. It’s a strange feeling. To the people here, they are associated with Guinevere and her banner. It’s an odd thing to have his loyalty displayed and not have it be the thing he always thought it would be. When Pym smiles at the people they pass, they simply smile back. They don’t think of it.

“How are you both not frozen?” Guinevere demands as they both come into the room, “you especially,” she says, fixing him with her gaze.

“I’m Ash Fey,” he points out, “and I have layers on.”

“Not enough if this snow keeps up,” she says, looking back at the map in front of her, “we’ll get you warming clothes. If the snow does keep up though, that means Uther’s going to hole up in one of his cities.”

That catches his interest. If they can head Uther off, they could score the most important victory. Guinevere has taken out her sisters, if she takes Uther out she’ll secure their safety and the future of a kingdom—at least temporarily. If Cumber has any sense he’ll surrender, though from what he remembers Lancelot doubts it. But killing Uther is the practical thing to focus on. Cumber’s kingdom is across the sea and Guinevere knows that isn’t where her destiny lays.

“Uther’s not going to rush back,” Merlin offers, “he’ll want to show off for his people, especially after you took this place. He’s going to want to show off.”

Lancelot looks at the druid from his place by the fire. He’s speaking the way he does out of experience. The disgust in his voice is reserved for the royals, which Lancelot understands Merlin hates more than the Church and the Ice King combined. He feels betrayed by Uther. That and Other is not in his great, golden city. Lancelot knows they can use that to their advantage.

“Which city is he going to?” Guinevere asks.

“Camelot.”


	2. Chapter 2

“This is unnecessary,” he says from behind the screen.

“Do you want to tell that to Guinevere?” She asks. He doesn’t retort, “she just wants to help, in her own way,” Pym points out.

She hears Lancelot sigh but he doesn’t argue or say he’s going to Guinevere. This is not a battle that honestly needs to be fought. There are those but keeping everyone warm just seems like a practical thing. A necessary thing. Especially if they are out there pretending to just be ordinary travelers. She knows Lancelot prefers his old clothes but in this case they have to be practical. Or he can change when he’s on the road.

He comes out dressed in more layers and looking less than thrilled as he reaches up and scratches the back of his neck.

“Is it itchy?” Pym asks. Lancelot glances at her and drops his hand. She knows that this is a question he’s used to immediately saying no to. But after a moment’s consideration he nods, “alright, go take it off,” she says.

“The itch is nothing,” he says.

“There’s other fabrics,” she replies. He looks at her blankly, “you’re not the first Fey to find wool itchy,” she says, “the Moon Wings wouldn’t go near it.”

He considers for a moment more and then goes back to put on his old clothing. Pym tries not to wonder how much time he’s spent ignoring those itches. Or maybe that didn’t register when he was trying to be uncomfortable. The itch from the wool couldn’t have been worse than the chaffing from the hairshirt. That makes her think of the rest of his back. It’s cold and they’re all in more layers, she hasn’t wanted to cross the line into coddling him or treating him differently after what happened.

“Can you come out here before you put your shirt on?” She calls to him.

He obeys.

She knows he would but she still wonders if there will ever be a day when he doesn’t, when his first instinct isn’t to stand at attention and fall in line. She would say it’s naturally a part of him, but she knows it’s not. It’s just been trained into him. Beaten into him. He stands in front of her and she looks at the scar on his abdomen and the ones on his back. They’ve healed thanks to his gift and she can see he’s learned how to move with the differences. He’s hyper aware of his body, he has to be. It’s lucky he’s able to heal, though she can pick out places where the marks healed enough to leave damage. There are a few places where his skin sags slightly around the marks. His healing seems constrained by the scars that form. They remain unless the wound is fresh or was dealt with iron.

“I’m alright,” he says.

“I know,” she agrees, “you’re also good at hiding when you’re not.”

He presses his lips together and turns his head, almost like a child whose been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Not with you.”

She’s glad she’s behind him when he says it so only she has to know her face gets hot. They don’t hide things from each other, but Lancelot tries to protect them as much as he can. It’s why when he wakes from his nightmares he leaves silently and always touches her shoulder so she knows he’s returned. He always returns. That’s something she’s still not used to, considering how many do not. And something he’s unnervingly aware of, though she hasn’t said the words. She ignores the warmth on her face and finishes looking at his back.

“Are the scars bothering you?” She asks.

“No more than any others,” he says, “scars tend to ache at the change in the weather.”

She’s heard that now, though before it was never something she was fully aware of. People with those kinds of scars didn’t exist in her world. Not when the weather changed like this.

“I can make something to help,” she says, and it doesn’t come out as a question.

“Thank you,” he says and hesitates a moment, “may I put my shirt back on?”

“Oh, yes of course!” She says, feeling her face get even hotter, if possible, “sorry, I didn’t mean to have you standing here getting cold.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, almost smiling as he puts his shirt back on.

He’s alright. She has to remind herself of that. But he’s not, not entirely. How could he be? But even in his warped version of alright, he’s not really that. He holds it together well but she can see he’s tired. He pushes himself through it and she can’t blame him for that instinct but he has to see it’s not working. Not really. She can figure out how to mend a lot of things but what’s been done to him isn’t that. It’s not something she can mend.

He doesn’t pray.

She knows it even though whenever he did it, it was always an intensely private thing. He’ll listen to Bedivere, he’ll hold his Beads and go through the motions, but she’s been disgusted by the Church and his praying enough to know that is not what he’s doing. Not really. She can’t exactly blame him for feeling that way after what he’s been through but he’s guarded his faith so desperately. There’s something tragic in him losing it, even if she thinks they might all be better off without the Church.

“Does it make you itch?” He asks. It takes her a moment to remember what they’re talking about.

“Not really,” she says, “but I never really gave it much thought. Just put on another kirtle.”

He looks at her blankly and she realizes that he has no idea what she’s talking about. It’s almost amusing. Of course he’s got limited experience with women’s clothing. Men’s too if she’s being honest. He’s accustom to showing up, getting his stack of clothes and then going on his way. Nearly everything about his appearance has been decided by someone else for most of his life. She pulls the neck of her dress to the side and brings up the undergarment he’s seen before.

“This is a kirtle,” she explains.

“I gathered,” he remarks and she rolls her eyes at his sarcasm, “now you don’t have to wear the wool either,” he adds.

“Oh I’d rather save it for everyone running around,” she says waving him off. She doesn’t need to worry about things like that, not when there are people who have to be warm to do their best, “I’m fine.”

When she turns he’s much closer.

“Guinevere can get more.”

“I know.”

“You don’t need to be uncomfortable.”

She swallows tightly as she looks up at him. She reminds herself that she knows how tall he is, that there’s no reason for her to be surprised by his height at this point. She was just standing in front of him. He looks at her calmly and she knows that he has a point, she just can’t also justify it. She doesn’t want to cause any trouble or make anyone go out of their way for her.

  
“There’s more important things to focus on,” she says.

“Yes,” he agrees, “but this is an easy thing to fix.”

“I don’t want anyone hurt so I can be comfortable,” she blurts out.

“We have enough coin to buy more fabric,” he counters.

She immediately feels foolish, remembering that they still do. It’s coin from the Church. Her head still spins with how much there was, though she knows the Church has more coin than they know what to do with. She cannot even say that she has a problem with using the coin, it’s already been used and she’s more practical than that. If Lancelot has no issue with it being used, then neither does she. Not if it helps them live, helps them make it through the winter, helps them build a new home.

“You’re right,” she sighs, “if we need more fabric I’ll talk to Guinevere.”

He seems satisfied with that response and Pym shoves aside any emotion to focus on the practicality in his words. He steps back which makes it slightly easier to breathe. She also knows if she insists on him not suffering, he’s going to insist on the same for her. In a strange way she supposes they are both used to pushing their own needs aside. Though his are for a much darker reason.

“Have you ever been to Camelot?” She asks.

“Yes,” he says, “we were summoned briefly when our negotiations started. Father Carden insisted I be there,” he pauses for a moment, “why?”

“Merlin seemed very excited,” she says.

He looks at her for a long, silent moment. Pym fights the irrational urge to squirm at his inspection. He’s very good at seeing past what she usually puts up, but since the revelation of the vision that she kept she feels his eyes on her more. She never intended to hurt the trust that they had built. She finds she doesn’t like it and usually submits to the looks, maybe in some way to show that she is on board with rebuilding their trust.

“I haven’t seen him look excited about a place,” she says, “I think Camelot might be what he saw in his vision. Maybe gold was more metaphorical.”

“No,” he says. She glances at him, “Camelot’s palace is white,” he says, “the stones were treated,” he hesitates for a moment, “it looks gold in the sun.”

Pym doesn’t know why that makes her stomach drop. It shows on her face because Lancelot moves closer. Though this time it’s not difficult to breathe with him so close. It feels better than it did when they were farther apart. Merlin didn’t see her there and that’s not something she necessarily needs to be afraid of, though she finds she is all the same. But Lancelot being there makes her feel better about it. Like maybe one of those alternate explanations is the case.

“It could be somewhere else,” she says.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, “if we cut Uther off before he gets there we won’t need the city,” he says.

“The city is a part of this,” she retorts, “it’s Uther’s capital, we will need it.”

“It’s not a part of this without you.”

He says it with the simplistic assurance of someone who is confident in what they’re talking about. Pym still doesn’t know how he can be. Why he would be willing to have more blind faith when it cost him so much last time. She’s not comfortable with inspiring that feeling in anyone, let alone someone like Lancelot who has killed in it’s name. But at the same time she finds she’s glad one of them believes that the vision is wrong. She would rather put her faith in that than in a seven hundred year old druid whose goal is to die.

“You’re right,” she says, “for the second time. Could you stop being right so frequently?”

She means it as a joke but her voice sounds strained. Even before Lancelot covers her hand with his own. Pym doesn’t know what she’s so flustered about. The city, the reminders of what happened to him—the past few sleepless nights as she’s tried not to think that he could be in trouble. He’s back now. He came back then. She has to keep reminding herself about that fact, though she’s not quite sure why she needs the reassurance when he’s standing right in front of her.

“You’re still nervous,” he points out.

“Yes,” she says, “right again. But I told you I would be the first time you rode off,” she adds, “I won’t always be,” she feels almost guilty at it.

“You didn’t feel like this when you were taken,” he points out.

“That was different. I was barely gone and barely hurt,” she can feel the scar on her palm from pulling the blade out of him, “you almost died.”

“You were in danger,” he counters.

“Barely. None of us are like you, you knew how to find me easily. You knew how to get me back,” she shakes her head, “if we hadn’t gotten to you when we did—“

“You would have found another way,” he says.

She doesn’t know how he has so much faith in them. Now they have coin, a base of operations, something that looks like supplies. Back then they had little more than their wits and a decrepit old church. But he had every faith they would come for him. His ability to have it makes her head spin. She can barely believe he’s here and he’s standing in front of her holding her hand.

“Why does it make you nervous?” He asks.

“I’m not used to people coming back,” she admits, “even when they don’t leave willingly.”

“Gawain came back,” he points out. She shakes her head, knowing he’s right but also knowing that what he came back as is not as simple as her friend, “and Nimue is helping.”

The sound of her friend’s name still brings up a churn of emotions that still feels more like a blow than she wishes it did. She thought she was closer to making peace with what happened. But the appearance of the Hidden, the fact that they now take on the sound of her voice and the minnows, it all brings up a new slew of emotions. She doesn’t know how to deal with them. She doesn’t want to deal with them. The cold brings up a new slew of memories as well. And even though she’s alright with the cold, she’s not on her own, it still feels painful.

“Nimue used to help us during the winter,” she admits, “she’d make sure we got better deals for what we sold or help me buy warmer fabric,” she shrugs, “she’d help us make sure our crops would last longer than they should have, since it was just me to help my parents harvest,” she looks at him, “I think the cold just makes me miss her. I didn’t think a winter would happen so soon without her around, though if she had her way she’d be gone by now regardless of you all.”

The fact that it’s nearly been half a year without her makes Pym’s head spin. It would be around the time the ship would come to carry her off anyway, though some childish part of Pym thinks maybe she would have been able to change Nimue’s mind by now. Instead Nimue’s become one with the water and the only one of them whose been carried off on a ship is, well, her. She looks at Lancelot, it’s hard to talk about Nimue without it sounding like it is his fault. How is she supposed to reject one destiny and console herself with another? But he doesn’t look upset or like she’s accusing him of anything. Once again it seems like he can separate this mess much better than she is capable of. When he guides her to sit in front of the fire, she goes willingly.

“Tell me about how you spent your winters,” he says.

“It’s silly,” she protests, “I’m sure yours were much worse.”

“Probably,” he agrees, “how did you spend yours?”

She glances away, finding herself stupidly charmed none the less. Even though he’s probably only interested because this is another new thing he’s facing. She doesn’t even want to think about the ways Father Carden equated suffering and cleansing with the bitter cold that will soon be upon them. Only that maybe the cold helped numb Lancelot’s back sometimes.

“You know we’re both probably at a loss,” she admits, “the Raiders are better suited to this than my family was. Or any Fey.”  
  
“Well they’re from the Ice Kingdom,” he points out.

“So how did they spend it?” She asks, “you’ve been around them in winter.”

“Tell me about the Fey first,” he says.

“You’re not going to let me avoid the topic?” She asks.

“You seem to feel better after you talk,” he points out.

She sighs and tucks her hair behind her ear, returning her hand to his. She has no reason to hide it and someone else should know.

“It was a village effort, we’d start getting ready during summer really. We’d harvest fruit to preserve it—“


	3. Chapter 3

Sparring with Bedivdere has a different rhythm than anyone else.

He’s remained helpful and Guinevere has grudgingly agreed he’s allowed to use weapons, under heavy supervision. Mostly it’s sparring. On the rare times that sparring comes before he helps Tristain, she watches them with a mix of disdain and huger. She is allowed to be unshackled and she’s been allowed to keep her hawks, but weapons are not permitted for her. Which is another blow Lancelot has inadvertently dealt. It’s not a lack of loyalty, it’s a lack of emotion and, more importantly, a lack of control over her Fire. When he spars with Bedivere it feels more familiar than anything in this place. It’s a reminder of how new things are here, even if they no longer regularly feel strange.

“You’ve gotten faster,” Bedivere remarks.

“Or, you’ve gotten slower,” Lancelot offers.

“I think I may have preferred it when you didn’t talk,” Bedivere points out.

Lancelot smirks and shrugs as they meet again. Bedivere is doing what they have been trained to and trying to throw him off in a different way. It’s what he does without thinking and what Tristain and Abbott Wicklow try to do. It’s more a sign that Lancelot is right. Though Lancelot knows that Bedivere’s balance has been thrown off from his Paladin days and there is a difference between his life now and the life of someone constantly at war or training. Still Bedivere only seems slightly perturbed by getting beaten and manages to hold his own. In a fight against anyone else, Lancelot imagines he would have little trouble winning. It makes Lancelot morbidly curious at how Bedivere can be calm at the loss of his stamina. Just the idea of it makes panic start in him. Even when he’s been forbidden from direct fighting he’s been exercising on his own or with Squirrel.

“It’s been a while since you fought a Paladin.”

“You’re not a Paladin anymore,” Bedivere points out, “and no. I suppose they saw no sense in keeping my skills up to Paladin standards,” Lancelot looks at him curiously, “well they were clearly hoping I would die.”

“Those sound like excuses,” Lancelot says.

“Not at all,” Bedivere replies, “I chose the thing that would let me live longer.”

Lancelot steps back and looks at him.

“What do you mean?”

Bedivere frowns but immediately pulls his blade back as well. He softens at Lancelot’s curiosity and Lancelot finds it difficult not to declare this over and turn away.

“I needed the element of surprise,” Bedivere says, “and in the other Churches I was caretaker for, there were people. They felt more comfortable if I wasn’t walking around like I might run them through if they didn’t say their prayers right.”

Lancelot pushes aside the part of him that wants to argue not saying them correctly was a sign of being unfaithful. He forces himself to listen to what Bedivere is saying. He doesn’t know how he’s managed to not make the majority of people in this place afraid of him, but it’s oddly nice to be able to walk down the streets without the whispers and stares following him. There are stares, to be sure, but they are because he’s an Ash Fey. Not because he’s a monster. There’s an advantage in people not being afraid of him. It will also make life easier on Squirrel, Pym and even Guinevere as she continues to associate with him. He owes it to them to see how he can do that.

But they are not the people he can ask.

“Were you unarmed?” He asks.

“Only when I needed to be,” Bedivere says, “I wasn’t looking to get killed. Believe it or not, the Church is not loved in every place.”

Lancelot means to ask more about what he did but he gets distracted by Bedivere’s words. Or rather, he recognizes there is something here useful to Guinevere. In a way he may not have seen before. Places that are rumored to have an issue with the church like he’s describing are prime for being brought to their cause. Or will be. But they are also places that may be on Uther’s journey. Not for Uther to go into but for them to be cleansed by the Church. It would send a message to Uther that the Paladins are still a force worth being allied with and quell anyone who may be questioning their loyalties.

“Those places, are they between here and Camelot?” He asks. Bedivere catches his breath and Lancelot frowns at the delay, but he nods, “they may be targets for the Paladins.”

“I doubt that,” Bedivere says.

“They’re going to realize what I did to the ship that was sent for me,” he points out.

“You put too much in their faith,” Bedivere says.

“I would think that if they hadn’t seen the Fire,” Lancelot reminds him. Bedivere sighs and nods in agreement, “they’ll piece together you’re on our side too. They’ll want to punish you for it,” he explains, “Is there anyone there who can be used against you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is there anyone you care about?” Lancelot asks.

“I took a vow of celibacy,” Bedivere sputters, “A vow I still uphold. They would come for everyone,” he says, “if I had someone waiting for me, wouldn’t I have said something by now?”

Lancelot nods. That complicates things. It would be easier if he had a few targets. If they want to get to him they will burn down the entire town. The Paladins have the ability to do it. Protecting the entire town will take more of their resources. Bedivere is still looking confused at the line of questioning. Lancelot doesn’t think the question is foolish. The Pope has pushed for celibacy among the clergy but the Paladins have always been warriors first. And some sins have been deemed more forgivable than others. Bedivere is a rare good man among the Paladins, that doesn’t mean that his views are shared.

“You may have. You may also have seen the benefit in proving your loyalty. You wouldn’t have seen them much if you were traveling.”

“If I had a reason to stay in these places I wouldn’t have been traveling,” he argues, “that’s why I took the vow.”

“You wouldn’t be the first Paladin to break one.”

Bedivere cannot argue with that and his face falls. Lancelot wishes it was not true. He wishes for many things. But it is and the Paladins have done terrible things. Things that have been in direct contradiction to many of their vows. Father would tell him that they were not demon born, that he needed to be held to a stricter standard if there was any hope of him finding Salvation. But Bedivere held more than most. His crime was choosing the word of God over the word of a man, breaking the vows of a soldier, not those of a holy man.

“But I believe you if you say you didn’t,” he adds.

“I didn’t,” Bedivere repeats, “I’ve given my life to God,” he hesitates for a moment, “not that there is anything wrong with choosing a different path—“

“You need to tell Guinevere about the villages,” Lancelot cuts in.

  
“I can mark them on the map. Merlin will have a better idea of his route,” he says, “we can pick this up later.”  
  
Bedivere goes to speak to Guinevere. Lancelot knows he should go with him, but he heads to the stables instead. He’s following some instinct and as he gets closer, he sees that he was right to do so. Squirrel is already at the barn, ready to lead the horse out. The horse seems less than enthusiastic at the idea. Unlike Squirrel, Lancelot isn’t dressed for the increased snow that’s fallen. But the cold bothers him even less than it did before he underwent the Ash Folk ritual. Squirrel gives the horse’s reins a final tug and then swears in boyish frustration.

“Don’t force it,” he says.

Squirrel jumps and turns to him. Lancelot reaches out and touches the horse who immediately leans against his hand. The horse being afraid of the snow isn’t something troubling, Lancelot’s seen bravery from him that he wouldn’t expect from any but Goliath. He takes the reins and guides him forward, getting him a few steps closer before he backs up. Lancelot keeps a hand on the reins and reaches down, holding his other above the ground and summoning his Fire. The snow melts and when he feels the reins relax, he leads him out a bit further. 

“Let him get used to it,” he says to Squirrel, “put your hand above mine.”

Squirrel grips the reins above his hand, looking up from the horse to him. Lancelot glances down at him before looking purposefully back at the horse. Squirrel sighs at the signal and looks at the horse himself. Lancelot relaxes his grip on the reins, letting Squirrel be the one who holds him and just keeping his hand there as a safety measure. Squirrel is still a boy and however strong he is in some regards, he does not know how to handle the spooked horse from the ground.

“Talk to him,” Lancelot says to Squirrel.

“You’re doing great,” Squirrel says. The horse huffs.

“Softer,” Lancelot says.

“You’re doing great,” Squirrel says, lowering and softening his voice in a way that makes Lancelot think he’s being imitated, “you’re a very brave horse. This is way less scary than when he was blowing up trees. You were brave then, you’re brave now.”

Squirrel takes a step back further. The horse hesitates for a moment before Squirrel makes a noise of encouragement and then he takes a tentative step forward. Lancelot manages to keep Squirrel silent before he can whoop with pure joy. When the horse ducks down and investigates the snow, he loosens his grasp so Squirrel is the only one holding the reins. The moment he realizes it’s just him holding the reins, he stands taller and even reaches out to gently pet the horse’s neck.

“Bring him back inside for now,” Lancelot says, “let him get used to it gradually.”

“Come on,” Squirrel says, leading the horse back into the stables. He guides him back into his stall and the horse lowers his head to be pet, “you were very brave,” he says. He looks at Lancelot, “is Goliath afraid of anything?”

Lancelot thinks back to when Goliath was a foal with wobbly legs. He remembers Father telling him that it would be a miracle if he survived, that it would be God’s will. Lancelot thinks if there was anything that made him go against Father between being split by the sword and running away, it was probably with Goliath. God was not the one who nursed him with a bottle or taught him not to be afraid. God was not the one who pulled him back all the times Lancelot did, who trained him until the skinny, small foal who no-one thought would make it through the night was as good a horse as the Paladins had ever produced.

“He was when he was young,” Lancelot says.

“Where’d you learn to train him?”

“I watched the older Paladins work with their horses,” he says, “though in many ways they taught me what not to do.”

Squirrel seems relieved and Lancelot cannot blame him for that. It makes him feel embarrassed about all the things he did do. But he was able to protect Goliath from the cruel training they subjected everything to. He just wishes he had done it with more things.

“He’ll be braver as he does more,” Lancelot adds, “don’t forget Gawain chose him. You’ll do him proud training him.”

“Yeah, I will,” Squirrel says.

“How are you feeling about the winter?” He asks.

Squirrel seems less confused than he was expecting and shrugs.

“Alright,” he says and doesn’t immediately elaborate.

“Is there something—“

“I miss hunting with my father,” Squirrel says, “we’d go out and get the biggest deer we could find and bring it back. Mom would be so proud of us. And we’d have meat for a long time. We’d go sell it at the market too.”

Lancelot is surprised at how central the marketplace seems to be for both of them. How much trading is and bartering was done. He doesn’t remember being at markets except to pass through. He remembers the hushed silence as people would see those from the Church coming. He remembers hearing it all decried as sin, even though such a pronouncement seemed ridiculous to him. Even then.

“Is there a market happening here?” He asks Squirrel.

“Nah, the snow came too soon. Happens sometimes. I think we’re all set though.”

Lancelot nods, they’re set but it’s a missed tradition. If there’s something he understands it’s that. He looks out the window at the ground and begins to think. Clearing the snow and keeping people warm won’t be a problem. It could get Guinevere some good exposure to her subjects as well. But for that kind of thing, he knows there’s only one person to talk to.

“Let’s go talk to Arthur,” he says to Squirrel.

“About what?”

“We may be able to put on a market,” he says.

“Really?!” Squirrel looks excited in a way that Lancelot hasn’t seen in a while. That tells him more than anything that this might be a good endeavor, “I guess the snow’s not a problem for you. It’s handy having an Ash Fey around.”

Lancelot rolls his eyes and nudges him along.


	4. Chapter 4

Pym is surprised when the idea is brought up, but it’s not an unpleasant one

It feels foolish to miss something like the marketplace. It may hurt without Nimue there, but it’s one of the few things that she thinks might not. She has to remind herself that they are in a war for survival, that there are reasons why it would be foolish, that she should keep a clear head and weigh this out properly. But she can’t deny there’s excitement in her as well. Guinevere listens and Pym tries to keep her face blank, but when their eyes meet Guinevere makes a noise and leans back.

“You don’t think the people here are ready for winter?”

“They are,” Lancelot says.

“But the frost came early,” Arthur adds, “being under new leadership is different. This would give them a chance to uphold something,” he says, “it would also let us see how they are feeling.”

Guinevere is quiet for a moment and then nods.

“Take Tristain with you when you clear the square. See how she gets on with her Fire in a controlled place,” Guinevere looks over at her, “and try not to get too distracted. You’re a Raider, we don’t barter.”

“I’m not distracted!” Pym protests, feeling her face grown warm. She looks down at her fingertips and is glad that being a Raider isn’t all she is. She likes the practice of haggling in the marketplace, it feels like one of the skills she’s quite good at, “we shouldn’t raid the marketplace either.”

“What was that?”

“I said there’s nothing wrong with haggling,” she replies, “I’ll come with you and help with Tristain,” she says quickly to Lancelot.

He nods and waits for her as she comes over to him, aware that behind her Guinevere is probably rolling her eyes. Pym ignores the desire to turn and check and walks to Lancelot. Having more freedom means there’s a handful of places Tristain might be, but Lancelot leads her to the most obvious. The chapel is small but it’s still a chapel. Tristain is kneeling in one of the pews, head bowed and hands clasped. The questions of whether or not Lancelot is jealous of her ability to still pray burns in Pym’s throat, but she swallows it down. He motions for her to stop and they both wait as Tristain purposefully finishes and then stands and moves towards them, careful not to fully show her back to the Cross. Pym sees the amber colored beads as she slips them around her wrist.

“We’re going to clear the square for a market,” he says, “this will be a good opportunity for you to practice your Fire,” she glances between them, the sarcasm falling off her face.

“No chains?”

“That would make it difficult,” Lancelot says dryly.

Tristain rolls her eyes, her usual displeasure coming back to her face.

“Well then lead the way.”

Pym looks at Lancelot as Tristain walks in front of them. He gives her a look of pure exasperation and she has to turn her head not to smile at it. She’s sure that she and Squirrel wormed their way under his skin a long time ago, but there’s something almost endearing about seeing him react to other people doing the same thing. She can see his annoyance, but it’s the kind of annoyance that little ones are uniquely capable of bringing up. Despite her best efforts to look away she finds herself looking back at him as they get their cloaks and head to the square.

“You look like Gawain when Squirrel would appear places,” she remarks.

“Does that make me Squirrel?” Tristain cuts in.

“I guess,” Pym admits.

“There are worse things to be,” she says with a shrug, turning her attention forward.

Lancelot glares at the back of her head. Tristain has not earned the privilege of a blade with any regularity. She’s barely earned the right to have her prayer beads and her birds. As a result her hair has grown though it puffs oddly with the pieces at the crown of her head. They don’t yet reach the length needed to be caught in her braid. Lancelot’s hair has seen more growth, but it hasn’t healed around the scar the way he wants it to. She wishes that it had. She wishes that any of this was easier than it’s turned out to be.

“Bedivere says you went to the stables,” she says and hesitates before asking, “is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he replies, “Squirrel was working with his mount. He’s afraid of the snow.”

“He was doing it alone?” She asks quickly, thinking of how small Squirrel is and how dangerous nervous horses can be.

“No,” Lancelot says. She glances at him curiously, “I was with him.”

Pym stares at him before rolling her eyes at his response and the joke he’s making. Of course he was there and Squirrel was alright, but she wonders how far he made it out of the stables. Squirrel’s future horse has more bravery than she’s seen from most horses, but none are as brave and well trained as Goliath. She knows that’s because of Lancelot. That if anyone can teach Squirrel how to work with the horse, it’s him.

“I guess it was only a matter of time before he started getting into trouble again,” she says.

“He’ll be fine,” Lancelot says.

“I know,” she sighs.

Tristain echoes the sigh loudly and glances back at the two of them, her eyes narrowed and calculating. Pym gives her a questioning look and she shrugs, turning back ahead. Pym feels Lancelot looking between the two of them but she shakes her head. She has no idea what Tristain is inferring from their conversation, except that Squirrel is a troublemaker. She has to remind herself that Squirrel isn’t worth much to the Trinity Guard. And even if he was, it’s not enough to get her back in their good graces. Nothing is. And Tristain is many things but she’s not stupid. The snow that’s covering the ground is not that deep, but ice is on the square. Tristain looks at it and then at him.

“What?” Lancelot asks.

“We shouldn’t use Fey Fire,” she says, “regular fire will be fine.”

“You need the practice,” he says. She folds her arms, “stop making excuses.”

“I am not,” she hisses, “using Fey Fire like this—“

“Is what we did back on the island,” he cuts in, “it’s what we did here before and Guinevere has ordered it.”

“Because you’re so good at following orders,” she retorts.

“Alright, enough,” Pym says, cutting in between the pair of them. Lancelot is more in control but they don’t need either of them losing it at the moment. Tristain has yet to produce Fire without touching something green. Pym doubts it will be because Lancelot infuriates her—only because if that was enough, she’s certain that it would have happened by now. Still it’s best not to tempt fate, “if you want any privacy now is the best time to do it. I’ll turn my back—“

“You aren’t the problem,” Tristain says, “how are we even going to do this?”

“Here,” Lancelot says, handing her a branch.

She looks from the branch to him and then back again. She takes it from him and looks at it and then back to him. Pym forces herself to breathe as she stands there looking between them, waiting for something to happen. It was the news that the closest thing he knew to a father was dead that triggered Lancelot using the Fire. She’s not sure what is supposed to do it for Tristain but this isn’t it. If she’s being honest, Tristain standing in front of Lancelot with a branch is also not something she’s anxious to have drag on.

“This isn’t working,” Tristain snaps, “and people are going to look.”

“Keep holding it,” he says.

She does and he reaches up, touching the top of it. Tristain’s jaw clenches and Pym can see the mix of discomfort and fear that she hasn’t seen so openly in a long time. She’s about to ask why when she sees the lighter Flame split the branch from the point Tristain is holding. As though Lancelot’s Fire is calling to hers. Lancelot’s face remains impassive. But that’s not new. He’s much better at it, his face has always been more exposed whereas Tristain has had the luxury of a mask. The wood splits and she drops the branch. It’s ash by the time it hits the ground. Dangerous or not, Pym is immediately there.

“Let me see your hand,” she says.

“It’s fine,” Tristain snaps.

“Tristain.”

The Ash Fey looks at her for a moment before shoving her hand at her. She wonders if all the Ash Folk are like this or if it’s just those who have been warped by the Church. Tristain looks un-remorseful, almost calm and Pym turns her hand over.

Wood is embedded in her palm.

“This is not fine,” she says.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Tristain says almost smugly, glancing between them.

“I know how you feel about pain,” Pym shoots back, “we both do,” she looks over at the nearest wall, “you deal with the ice,” she says to Lancelot, “come here and let me fix your hand. If you heal with the wood in it—“

“You’ll just have to cut it out. I’ve heard,” Tristain says.

Pym holds her hand and leads her to a step, pulling it into her lap. She has small tweezers on her and sets about removing the splinters from Tristain’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the dark green Fire that Lancelot uses to carefully melt the ice and evaporate the water, leaving the dry ground behind. She’s nearly got all of the wood out when he’s done and comes over to her.

“Could you get us something to put the dirt in?” She asks.

He fills a small bag and comes back over. Pym smiles her thanks and looks at Tristain. She puts her hand into the bag and a moment later it’s filled with ash as she pulls her hand out and flexes the healed limb.

“Well if I can ever use a sword again I’ll be prepared,” she says.

“What happened?”

They turn as Morgana walks towards them purposefully, her eyes focused on Tristain. She’s walking which would look normal, if not for the elaborate black dress she wears and the veil that covers her hair. Though Lancelot has killed more people than everyone in the city, it’s Morgana they seem wary of. If it bothers her, she doesn’t seem to care as she strides over to them. Tristain rolls her eyes in response to the question and gets to her feet like this is an old dance they’ve done before.

“Nothing,” she says.

“What happened?” She repeats, turning to both of them.

Pym doesn’t feel right saying.

“Training incident,” Lancelot says, “she’s been seen by Pym.”

“Yes, my eyes work,” Morgana says, looking at Tristain.

“Are you here to tell me I’m dying of an infection?” Tristain asks.

“If I was, I wouldn’t have walked,” Morgana says.

“Right, because it ‘draws you in’—“

“Can you two stop?” Pym asks abruptly, unable to deal with their squabbling, “this is supposed to be something normal for everyone.”

There’s a plea in her tone that makes them stop and look at her, which is good because she has no business saying that word. Not when she’s trying to break up what is happening between an incredibly powerful sorceress and a very rare Ash Fey. Morgana holds her gaze for a moment and then snatches Tristain’s hand. The Ash Fey jumps but she just turns her palm over and looks at her hand. Tristain lets her look for longer than Pym would expect before snatching her hand back.

“I can heal,” Tristain says, folding her arms. Morgana raises an unimpressed eyebrow and gives a sound of disgust at her behavior before looking around.

“How are they going to know it’s a market?” She asks.

“Arthur and Father Bedivere said they could spread the word,” Pym says, “it’s not supposed to snow for another day.”

“If it does, it’s not a problem,” Lancelot reminds her.

Pym looks at him and nods, not sure why she feels nervous that this won’t happen. Maybe there’s no reason for it to occur. She can see people though, starting to look and come to investigate. For once Lancelot is not the most intimidating one. But still she smiles to hopefully mitigate some of the intimidation from Tristain and Morgana.

“Let’s go back to Guinevere,” Morgana says abruptly and Pym hopes that reading thoughts isn’t one of her talents.

“Fine,” Tristain says.

“You did well,” Lancelot tells her.

“I did nothing,” she retorts.

“That’s well,” he says.

She looks at him quietly for a moment and then jerks her head in an approximation of a nod and follows Morgana as they head back. Lancelot seems almost relieved to be out of her presence. Pym can’t blame him. It’s not Tristain necessarily but everything with the Ash Folk and the Church seems to have become a raw wound again, one he is trying to hold together with sheer will. Even if it doesn’t work like that.

“You’re right,” she says, drawing him back to reality with her, “she did do well,” he nods, “I didn’t have to cut any arrows out of her.”

His head snaps towards her and she shrugs, looking back at him. His eyes scan her face though he quickly sees she’s teasing him. He opens his mouth and then presses his lips together, looking around at the people going by. He seems to relax when he sees them and though things are awful, Pym is glad that they don’t all appear as threats. She’s sure somewhere in his head they do, but he doesn’t go tense in those subtle, instinctive ways like he usually does.

“She would be in good hands if she did,” he says.

Pym feels her face get hot.

“Adequate hands,” she corrects, “should we see if people need help with their stalls?” He nods, “who gave you the idea for this anyway?” She asks.

“You and Squirrel,” he says, “you missed it and it seemed like a good way to bring people together.”

She doesn’t know why she finds that surprising. Maybe because she never expected Squirrel to admit he liked seeing everyone at the market. He always complained about how he would rather be in the woods, but in that half hearted way that only seemed to happen when he wasn’t occupied by something else. She knows that Lancelot is a good listener and he’s better at giving the people he serves what they want, but she finds herself somewhat touched by him taking the idea and running with it like this.

“Thank you,” she says.

He holds her gaze for a long moment, his cheeks coloring and then nods quickly.

“Let’s go see about helping,” he agrees.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and nods in return, following him and hoping that they both don’t look too flushed to be of any use.

Somehow she doesn’t think it will be a problem.


	5. Chapter 5

“If these people are going to be my subjects they are going to get used to me as myself. That is the end of it!”

Lancelot winces as the door opens, permitting them entry. Guinevere is standing there fastening a sword about her waist. She looks very similar but a bit more polished, like her leather has been cleaned recently along with the rest of her. The lines around her eyes are freshly black and her jewelry has been shined. She looks nice. Nicer, he thinks, than in the gown that seems to have been the subject of an argument. Still when she holds out her hand, Pym looks relieved to shove a heavy, ornate, fur trimmed cloak into it.

“Not a word,” Guinevere warns, “from any of you.”

“We were just going to say you looked nice,” Arthur says.

Pym turns her head away as Guinevere gives him a look of pure loathing. He knows she needs to stand out, Guinevere knows it as well. So does Arthur. But Lancelot can see how being herself is also important. If they are trying to build a world where they can all coexist, there has to be room for someone like Guinevere. She swings her head towards him and her eyes narrow.

“Lose the sword,” she says. He raises his eyebrows, “you’re not going as my guard.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, not liking the way that everyone trades looks, “for this.”

“I know you are,” she says, “so lose the sword.”

“Why?”

“Are you questioning me?” She asks. He glances down but nods, “because you haven’t been to one of these before without planning to murder someone or do something nefarious for the Church,” she says.

Lancelot looks at Pym who has no response for that, but doesn’t seem to be the one who said it. The one who did that is very clearly Bedivere who seems to be profoundly interested in the floor all of a sudden. Though Lancelot imagines there was no great strain to put the two together. The market does not sound fun, he thought that he would go there with some amount of familiarity but Guinevere will hear nothing of it. Even when Arthur opens his mouth. She holds her hand up to silence him.

“I shouldn’t have to order you to go and enjoy yourself but if I do,” she trails off almost threateningly and he glares back, “fine. Go enjoy yourself. Pym make sure he follows that order.”

Pym opens her mouth and then blows out a breath, nodding her head. Guinevere turns away, signaling their conversation is over. Lancelot reminds himself that she means well, though he would rather be helping guard her than going to the market and wandering around like he hasn’t killed the relatives of people there. But it will let him do more to ensure Pym’s safety. She looks at him apologetically as she comes over.

“I didn’t know she was going to do that,” she says.

“It’s fine,” he tells her.

“You might enjoy it?” She offers, but it sounds so much like a question he finds himself nodding. Even if he doubts that’s the case, “I’m sure Guinevere will be alright.”

“She needs more guards,” he says, “this is foolish. I’m fine.”

“It’s not a comment on your skills,” Pym says, thought the way her eyebrows draw together says she’s unsure, “I think she’s trying to be a good friend. Like with the clothes. Maybe let her practice?”

Lancelot sighs and nods, knowing that he and Guinevere have the need for practice in this area. Him mores. But she cannot go around threatening people to get what she wants. He dislikes removing his swords but consoles himself with a handful of smaller ones tucked around him and by taking the shorter blade. He’s gone months without the bigger one, he can survive one trip to the market.

Returning to the square means seeing more people. Them not being afraid means they don’t give him a wide berth. It’s inevitable that someone will eventually bump into them, but he’s not expecting it to be a woman half dragging a child and carrying a basket full of eggs. She trips into him and only his training lets him keep her from falling and catch her basket to keep her eggs from splattering over the ground.

“So sorry!” The woman chokes out, face red.

“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Lancelot lies and returns the basket he caught when she collided with him. Relief shines on her face as she takes it back.

“Thank you sir,” she says.

He nods and she hurries on her way, giving another apology as she does. Next to him Pym smiles as she takes off for the marketplace. There’s something soft and sympathetic as she does, like she remembers how much a basket of eggs can sell for and how far that will get her through the winter.

“That was nice of you,” she says when the woman is out of earshot.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

Pym nods and he looks at the crowd they are about to join. They’re villagers, being in a port means there’s more of a variety than he would have originally anticipated, but they are all here with the same goal I mind. There are a handful of Fey there and he can pick out their scents, but the overwhelming number are human. He has to push everything into it’s box and focus before they get properly into it.

“We can leave whenever you want,” Pym reminds him.

He nods. He knows they can. Though he originally though he would be there to guard Guinevere, she’s forbidden him from doing so unless things go horribly wrong. She doesn’t even say it’s because of some reason they know is a lie. She very clearly says it’s his first time as at one of these things without ulterior motivation and he should experience it. He knows he’s supposed to be grateful but the entire thing feels strange.

“It’s going to be fine,” he assures her.

“Of course it is,” she says smiling, “let’s go.”

It is not fine.

It turns out that even without Fey, the smells alone threaten to overpower him. He’s used to going into the market, getting what he needs and leaving. Not wandering around. There’s people selling meat and herbs and all manner of things. It all must have something Fey mixed in somewhere because the smell is much more heightened than he would like. He’s not in direct danger, none of them are. But the entire thing makes him feel oddly dizzy.

He figures it’s best to let Pym go ahead and trail her so she doesn’t think anything is wrong. She’s excited in a way that he hasn’t seen in a while and ruining it isn’t an option. He knows she wouldn’t blame him for it but it would be ruined all the same. He pretends to look at something, not with enough interest that the owner will think it’s a sale but enough so that he can put some distance between them. Just enough so that if he needs to slip further away he can, though not far enough that he would lose her scent. Not that he thinks such a thing is truly possible.

“Lancelot?” He fights the urge to curse at the sound of his name as she appears next to him. She looks up at him and smiles at the stall owner before grabbing his hand.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You’ve been ‘fine’ for a while,” she retorts and he knew he wasn’t doing as good of a job hiding it as he thought, “come on.”

He doesn’t fight as she leads him to a pocket of a building without so many people and smells. He picks up the lingering smell of Tristain’s blood and realizes that she probably scouted this spot out earlier. The high walls mean he doesn’t need to sit down, though he finds himself doing it anyway as she sits next to him. Before he can ask what she’s doing, she motions for him to look at her and presses her fingertips to the pressure points. It’s like being back on the boat, except he knows what to expect and she’s gotten stronger in her fingertips. The sudden absence of nausea is nearly crippling in it’s relief.

“Better?” She asks.

It’s a loaded term, he thinks they all know that none of them are fine. But much to his frustration, he finds he is less fine than he wishes. Though none of them bring attention to it, they all seem aware. Especially the person he sleeps next to. She lowers the hand from his ear.

“I’m trying,” he says, wondering why the admission feels guilty when it’s the closest he’s come to being honest. At least out loud. They both know this isn’t about the market, though that’s embarrassing enough.

“You don’t have to be better—“ she starts.

“I’ve never had to get better,” he says. She stares at him, “not in this way,” he continues, “it’s never been something anyone cared about.”

He doesn’t know how to explain it better, but he finds he’s desperate to have her understand. He’s not sure he’s ever been desperate for someone to understand a weakness of his since he was a small boy who didn’t want to kill an animal. But when she does, when her hand covers his, he finds he’s profoundly relieved. Even as another part of him screams that this is a weakness he shouldn’t show. It’s a smaller, softer part than it ever has been. He knows it’s not true.

“We care—“ she starts, “I care,” she corrects, “it’s alright that you’re not better, it’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“You are,” he points out.

“Well it seems silly for me to be upset,” she says, “I didn’t get kidnapped like that. And don’t say our kidnappings were the same. You got to me before anything bad happened.”

He thinks back to it and the sight of that Guard, of Iris, with her blade against Pym’s neck. Putting the arrow through Iris’ neck was not difficult, even with how close they were. Trusting that Pym would be able to keep the blade from cutting her throat was harder, but he had no other choice. He hand’t been expecting Pym to hold Iris’ hand as she died, to show her anything resembling kindness. He doesn’t even want to think what the world would be without Pym in it.

“As did you,” he says.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she says, her thumb brushing the hatch mark scar that faintly lays on his skin. It’s barely visible, but he has no doubt she knows most of them. “So I don’t care about the market. I just wanted to show it to you.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Give me the salts,” he says.

“Lancelot—“

He looks at her and she sighs, but when she reaches into her bag it’s a tin.

“I thought the smells might bother you,” she says, “this seemed—kinder than those salts.”

The smell is kinder than the salts. Those mask the smell of anything but they are not something he is particularly fond of. Whatever is in the tin that he can touch under his nose smells sharp and clean and similar to the polish that he uses on Goliath’s tack. It’s not an unpleasant smell.

“Tell me if it gets bad again?” She says.

He nods, this time he means it.

And somehow, between what she’s done with the pressure points and what’s under his nose, it is better. Alone, he thinks it would be miserable but next to her, it’s almost pleasant. She takes him to different booths and several people greet them with a vague but welcoming recognition. It’s enough to see her looking at various things and relaxing as they wander through. There’s a familiarity in how she moves that he doesn’t usually see in the grander places they stay with Guinevere. It’s worth the salve under his nose and the strangeness in being here to see.

“Come here,” she says, pulling him over one of the stalls. She purchases some small rolls and tears it in half with surprising ease, “try this. It’ll work with what you have under your nose, I promise.”

He looks from it to her and she pulls off a corner of one, eating it. When he glances around it doesn’t seem like there’s a particular way to eat any of this food and takes some. Sweet and honey explodes on his tongue, along with something richer. There’s a paste in the middle. He doesn’t recognize what it’s made of but it’s rich and earthy. He thinks that if he didn’t have the slave under his nose, it might all overwhelm him again but the lack of taste makes it manageable.

“Good, right?” Pym says.

He nods.

“It’s like your bread,” he tells her.

“It’s a similar recipe,” she says, “but this is fried. And it’s filled with figs. They only get ripe at the end of the season,” she licks her thumb, “Nimue and I used to save all of our coins and buy these.”

He can see why they would be a priority.

He’s managed to skirt most people who would bump into them, but bumping into people seems to be half the reason this exists. He doesn’t think much of the shoulders that touch his, though when they’re done with the food he’s almost dizzy with the sweet but glad for the fact that he and Pym can join hands again.

He doesn’t focus on someone bumping into him until something is dropped into his palm.

He goes to reverse the grip but they’re gone faster than he expected. Pym immediately knows that something is wrong. Lancelot looks at giving chase but separating them could very easily be their intention. But when he opens his hand he doesn’t think that was it at all. He looks back at the crowd but he knows instinctively that whoever he just encountered is very good at evading.

“What is it?” Pym asks, stepping closer.

It’s a pebble.

It’s from the beach.

Pym immediately recognizes it. Lancelot feels the weight of the stone. He tries to think about anything he caught from the person who dropped it into his hand, but the image escapes him. He sees more with his nose than he does with his eyes. And his nose is compromised. Pym looks up from the stone to him and Lancelot closes his hand around it.

“Is it the Church?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “they would announce their presence.”

Pym runs her tongue over her bottom lip, looking around and raising her hand to shield her eyes. It’s not terribly sunny out and he realizes that she’s showing her fingertips purposefully. Maybe in the hopes that whoever did this will show themselves.

“Come on,” he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and steering them away from the throng of people. When he wipes under his nose and inhales, he already knows that he won’t be able to smell anything that will tell him who it is. Much as he may hope otherwise, “they’re gone.”

“We can look for them,” she says.

“No,” he tells her. She looks surprised at his refusal, “this wasn’t for me to look for them,” he says.

“How do you know?”

He can’t explain how he does but she seems to understand that. This is a signal that someone knows he went to the island, they know what the stones mean. They know who he is. He knows where his mind wants to run with that but he pulls it back. If it is who he hopes, what on earth would they think of him? How true is it that all Fey are brothers, when one has done the things he has?

“Lancelot,” Pym touches his hand and draws him back to the present.

He looks at her and she smiles encouragingly at him. She’s a reminder that there could be a chance, even a slight one, that there could be forgiveness. One day. But the sound of fanfare draws him back to the fact that one day is not today.

“It’s a signal,” he says, “I—“ He glances at her fingertips, “we’re being watched,” he corrects.

She looks nervous for a moment and he takes her hand, watching her relax and nod.

“Alright,” she says.

“Let’s stay here so they can see Guinevere,” he says, “it could help them make up their mind to show themselves.”

“That’s a good idea,” she says, “are you sure? I could stay and you—“

“No,” he says, immediately dismissing the idea of them separating. She’s revealed their connection with her hands, he’s not leaving her alone, “we’re staying together.”

She nods and watches as Guinevere makes her way through. She glances over at the two of them. Pym smiles and Lancelot thinks that’s probably not going to help sell what Guinevere is looking for. He doesn’t lift his hand but he turns it so she can see the stone. Her eyes narrow slightly before she taps the back of Arthur’s hand and he moves slightly closer.

“There’s never a dull moment with you, is there?” Pym asks.

Lancelot shakes his head.

“I did enjoy it,” he tells her quietly. She looks at him, “the market. It was enjoyable.”

“You’re not just saying that, are you?” She asks and he shouldn’t be surprised that she sees it’s not the full truth.

“It was enjoyable with you,” he corrects.

She blushes rather spectacularly, as she seems to do more frequently around him. Which he would think was strange except he’s noticed that he’s more prone to it around her. Perhaps they are not alright in some physical way or perhaps they are just being kinder and not accustom to it. But she steps slightly closer to him, regardless of how bright her face is.

“I’m glad,” she says, “I wanted to try, but I didn’t think it would be so fun. Or terrifying,” she adds, “I enjoyed going with you, so thank you for coming.”

He nods.

“Do you want me to hold the pebble so you don’t throw it first if there’s an attack?” She offers, not looking away from Guinevere.

He passes it to her and settles his hand on one of the blades instead.


	6. Chapter 6

She doesn’t find him in the church like she half hopes, but rather on the docks.

He slips away after dinner and though she knows it’s silly, that he can take care of himself, she still can only make herself wait a little while before following him. He’s left a trail and either by accident or by choice, she knows that him being out here alone isn’t a good idea. Not if he’s being watched. She finds him sitting on the dock, one knee up and his forearm braced against it, the stone turning over between his fingers. His swords are next to him and she’s grateful he brought them.

“I didn’t think you should be out here alone,” she says, knowing it’s ridiculous to think she’s capable of sneaking up on him, “we don’t have to talk,” she adds when he looks at her. He raises an eyebrow and she knows not talking isn’t exactly her strongest suite, “we don’t!” She repeats, “we can talk later. If you want,” she adds quickly, sitting nearby but not quite next to him.

“Where’s Squirrel?” He asks.

“He went to bed,” she tells him. Concern flashes across his face, “he ate a lot of sweets.”

He nods and turns back to the water. He’s looking out at the horizon and she imagines he’s thinking of the island. She doubts he can smell it this far away, but she has no doubt he knows the general direction it’s in. She’s glad he doesn’t use Squirrel as an excuse to push aside his own feelings. It’s hard not to speak but she knew that he might not want to. Instead she watches her breath form on the air and tries to imagine how cold the water must be. If anything like the Hidden is listening, she hopes that Nimue isn’t cold. However strange she finds her situation in the winter, she’s sure that Nimue’s have put it to shame.

She looks over when she hears him move. Before she can get up, he sits down next to her and puts the blade besides him. Relief fills her, even though she refuses to open her mouth first. Maybe he just wants to sit next to her to keep her safe rather than not talking. She thinks of all the things he’s done to make her feel comfortable and tells herself that she can be silent in this case. There are things he’s not ready to talk about. She can respect that. Even if she’s the kind of person who has never found much use in silence. He looks at her and she pretends to focus on the water, but she feels his gaze and she has to fight not to look before finally giving up.

“Do you want to talk?”

  
“You’ve held back enough,” he says.

“I was trying to give you time!” She argues, though the faint smile on his lips makes it hard not to smile back. She doesn’t quite succeed, “I just think seeing them won’t be worse than seeing the rest of us,” she says, “and you got through that.”

“They don’t want to see me,” he says.

“To be fair, I don’t think any of us did either,” she points out gently. He looks at her sharply and she shrugs, “I’m glad Squirrel brought you back, I wasn’t in the moment.”

“You hid it so well,” he says mildly.

“I know, I know,” she says, “toying with her fingers, “to be fair, I did still help you.”

“You did,” he agrees, “I don’t think that will happen again.”

  
“Well it doesn’t need to,” she says. He looks confused, “you’re not alone like you were. You have people here who can help—“ he turns away and she feels her stomach drop, “it’s not the same thing.”

  
“That’s not true if they’ve been here the entire time.”

Pym knows it’s not that simple and at the same time it is. Which makes it almost dizzyingly complicated. If they’ve been here, hiding from him, then they know what he’s done. Everyone knows what he’s done. All the explanations in the world don’t bring back the dead or wash the blood from his hands. No more than they help Father Carden or his parents or any of the ones who made him what he is. She knows that knots can be undone, but she also knows that they leave marks. Especially if they are tied in delicate things. And there is nothing more delicate than life. Even if his is unusually hearty.

“If they’ve been here the entire time then they believe as we do. All Fey are brothers,” a humorless smile twists his lips, “what?” She asks, something cold settling in her.

“When I took Gawain, he called me Ash Man. He recognized my Marks,” he says, “he said they hadn’t been seen on this continent in a long time. But if an Ash Fey has been with them, even if it’s not him, they’ve been using my scent to evade us. They’ve known I was Fey.”

What he isn’t saying hangs heavy in the air. And all the pretty excuses in the world won’t make it go away. If all Fey are brothers, then why was this allowed to happen? Even if the Ash Folk being exiled is the reason, the horror stories she’s heard Gawain rail against, if there’s been another Ash Fey here then why was he left? He doesn’t say it, perhaps he cannot. He’s killed so many Fey, asking why no-one saved him sounds almost sacrilegious. Even just putting that much value on his own life is something she never expected from him. He looks guilty and surprised that the thought has even crossed his mind and she looks in disappointment as he turns his face away. Subtle enough that he must think she won’t see. But she does.

“You’re right,” she says, “someone should have come for you. Saved you, like you saved Squirrel,” she shakes her head, thinking of how many people could still be alive if they had put aside their pride and saved a boy, something that shouldn’t have been a question of politics like it was, “you were failed.”

She isn’t expecting him to look so frustrated.

“It changes nothing,” he says and there’s a finality to his tone that makes her wonder why it feels like the end of the topic, when she has far more to say about it.

  
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” she agrees, “but the people here care about you. Even back then, Squirrel cared about you. It’s not as simple as they should hate you,” she looks at his fingers, “if they didn’t think that way, why would they give you that?”

“Because I went to the island,” he says, looking down at his fingers, “I went in the Temple after breaking all our rules.”

She can hear the self loathing in his voice. She’s used to hearing it in people’s voices and feeling powerless. It’s a burden that people like him—people with the power of Gods—it’s something they have to carry. Her mother used to say it was the price they paid for their abilities. It wasn’t for people like them to know. The were simple folk. Her mother used to say a lot of foolish things like that.

“You broke their rules to save my life. And Squirrel’s life, Goliath’s life,” she says, “if they had such a problem with it, perhaps they shouldn’t have been hiding.”

“If I hadn’t been there—“

“We would have been dead,” she cuts in, “with or without you, the Paladins and the Trinity Guard keep hunting us. They would have found us eventually. You’re not the only Ash Folk they had.”

That at least stops the self loathing words. It’s true, Tristain would have found them. And if not her, then someone else. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe none of them would have found them and her life would continue as it had been laid out. The thought fills her with dread even though she knows that so many people would still be here if that was the case. What are her own desires compared to the lives of her village? Pym ignores the question and looks at him. He’s here, they aren’t in the village with her destined for an unpleasant life she doesn’t want and Squirrel learning to kill much younger than he has the luxury of doing now.

“If they have a problem with you using your gift to help your friends and family, then maybe they should stay hidden.”

He stares at her, truly shocked and Pym knows it’s not the nicest thing to say. But she’s long since given up in thinking that family is only defined by your blood. She thinks about the people like Guinevere and Nimue and Gawain who saw the problems with how things were done, with how their people treated others, and how they changed it. She knows things aren’t as simple as that. But she can’t just sit here and watch him torture himself. Not now that she knows him, not now that she’s seen him go through so much actual torture.

“They have every right to be afraid of me,” he says.

“Yes, but you can change their minds,” she says, “you’ve already stared or they wouldn’t have signaled you. Even the Temple accepted you,” he doesn’t respond at first, “you can make things better with them.”

“Why do you believe that?” He says and she knows it’s not a question but she answers anyway.

“You’ve been a good friend to me,” she says, “and I can’t imagine that it’s easy being a friend to someone you feel guilt over. But you didn’t let that stop you. Not with any of us, even though I think sometimes you wanted to,” she says, “if I can see that, then anyone can.”

“No,” he says.

“You’re just looking for reasons for them to hate you,” she says, “you should give them a chance if they show themselves and let them learn not to be afraid of you. You’re many things but you’re not a coward. You’re stronger than that,” he looks at her skeptically, “if they keep watching they’ll see that too.”

“If they were watching they almost saw me faint in a marketplace,” he says.

“And they saw you get back up to try again,” she shoots back, “why are you so set on them hating you? Why is it so hard to believe that they might learn not to?”

It’s a true question this time, even though she’s not sure there is an answer. She knows it’s not fair to them, they could very well hate him and continue to hate him. But if they are watching, they must see that there’s more to the story than just him being a monster or a coward. She shakes her head, wondering when this flipped for her. When defending him became so important. Even to himself. She can’t say he didn’t do the horrible things he’s done, but she can say those things aren’t the only thing he is.

“You are not like the others,” he says finally, “children knew I wouldn’t hurt them, Squirrel knew. Even before I saved his life,” he says, “you not killing me is—“ he hesitates, “it’s one of the most miraculous things I’ve seen.”

Her mouth goes dry at the admission. There are times when she thinks Lancelot isn’t aware of the things he says, of the effect that they have. Hearing him talk about her in terms she knows that he understands is dizzying. She’s not sure how to handle being called miraculous like that, not by someone who believes in his core in such things.

“I’ve never killed someone,” she starts.

“Everything you’ve done is miraculous,” he says.

Her face feels hot.

“You shouldn’t say that,” she says and wonders why her voice sounds faint, “I’m not—I’m just a—“ she fumbles for what to call herself without making it sound like she’s nearly as desperate for him to continue as she feels. Which she shouldn’t, “I’m just Pym,” she says finally. He ducks his head and she wonders if she’s just ruined something, something she doesn’t quite know how to name, “what?”

“Before I met you, only Squirrel knew my name,” he says, “I thought I forgot it some days,” she nods, “it wasn’t until you started calling me by it that I remembered who I was,” he explains, “in my own head.”

It’s a horrible thing to think that he had forgotten. Or maybe that he had never known. The idea that he learned to do it, that she had anything to do with helping even when she wasn’t trying, is just as dizzying as when he calls her a miracle. Maybe because it’s a term he would choose himself, not something he’s heard from another or something she’s said to him. Though she wishes she could blame the very physical reaction on something else.

“So I guess being just ourselves is miraculous, when you put it like that,” she says.

“You’re red again,” he says.

“Well no-one’s ever called me miraculous before!” She says, feeling her face get hotter in embarrassment, “and I thought we weren’t talking about that,” she argues, rubbing at her cheek though she imagines that will only make it worse. She drops her hand back into her lap, “I told you, before this I was just a girl from the village whose family had done something horrible. That’s not—“ she fumbles, not wanting to ruin the beautiful word, “that.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says and she can add another physical feeling when her stomach knots at he prospect of him not doing that again.

“I’m not upset,” she replies quickly, “I’m just—not used to it.”

He frowns as though that’s a difficult thing to believe. Though she doesn’t know how he can think that. She’s not exceptional like the people she’s surrounded by. It’s hard to believe there’s not some measure of pity in their interest in her. It’s not fair to those who believed in her and ultimately wound up somewhere else to feel hurt by that. But it’s hard when there’s Lancelot who seems endlessly pulled in other directions and fights his way back every time.

He makes her believe.

In herself, in the goodness of people—in him. She’s not sure she’ll ever have the kind of faith he does but she can understand it the more she spends time with him. She know she’s wanted to be around him, but the feeling of belonging isn’t something she’s accepted. Not truly. Not until now. Surrendering to it feels like inviting disaster but it’s not something she thinks she can fight anymore. And it feels as though she’s been fighting it for a long time.

He turns the pebble over in his hand a final time before holding it out to her.

“Could you—“

“Yes of course,” she says quickly, taking it from him. She doesn’t know why it feels like sparks when their fingers brush against each other, “I’ll keep it safe.”

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods and puts it into the pouch on her belt.

“Do you feel any better about it?” She asks tentatively. After a moment he shakes his head.

“But torturing myself over it isn’t going to help,” he says, “or expecting them to do it to me.”

She nods, even if she hopes one day his mind won’t immediately go to torture and punishment, recognizing that is what it does and that life doesn’t need to be lived in such a way is half the battle. It’s progress. She can’t explain it but it feels like they are on a horse who is beginning to pick up speed, though she cannot say where they are going. If it will be good or bad.

She can say she is glad that neither of them is alone for the journey.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: illness

“Squirrel,” he touches the boy’s shoulder.

Squirrel makes a noise and tries to burrow deeper into the blankets. It’s odd for the boy. He is usually the first up and often pretends to sleep so he can either spy on them or out of some kindness. Lancelot knows he hasn’t done a particularly good job of hiding that he often leaves the room at night to be lost in his thoughts, though he’s lucky he hasn’t awoken them screaming with the nightmares. Him protesting is worrying, even if he ate too many sweets at the marketplace. He reaches for the corner of the blanket and pulls it back.

“Squirrel,” he repeats, putting a bit more force in his word, “how bad do you feel?”

“Bad,” comes the reply.

“I’ll get Pym,” he says.

“No!”

The protest makes him stop. Squirrel’s voice is reedy and thin but there’s a new force behind his words. Something is wrong. More wrong than he thought. He can hear there’s fear in the boy’s voice. Lancelot looks around the room for any sign of what is going on or why Squirrel’s afraid. He figured that him wedging himself into the farthest corner was to be close to the pot in case he was sick. When he thinks back on the night before, he realizes that he was already wrapped up in the blanket and shoved against the corner.

“Let me see you,” he says.

“You have to heal before you go near Pym,” Squirrel says and Lancelot nods before he remembers that Squirrel cannot see him, “do you swear?”

“Yes,” he says.

Lancelot knows the difficulty in breathing is from panic, but that doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

The whites of Squirrel’s eyes have turned red. Before he remembers the reasons not to, he presses the back of his hand to Squirrel’s forehead. The boy is already feverish but he may have been for days. His eyes did not look that way. Squirrel doesn’t pull the blanket down all the way but he works his hand free and Lancelot can see the black marks that dot his skin. Lancelot has seen the disease before. He’s healed from it before.

He hasn’t seen anyone survive it.

“Did you go to the market?” He asks Squirrel.

“I lied,” Squirrel admits, “I thought it would be better this morning but—“

“When did this appear?”

“This morning,” he says, pulling his arm back and shoving it under the blanket, “it’s pox.”

He nods, they both know what it is.

He thinks of Pym laying behind him. He always puts himself between the pair of them. She hasn’t touched Squirrel but he’s seen people be infected without touching others, just by getting close. When they burned villages with the disease, it was done by household not by person. Maybe there his something the Fey know that the Church does not. He can only hope, though the fear on Squirrel’s face makes him thing it is a long shot.

“Pym,” he says. There’s a muffled sound of protest that would make him panic if not for the knowledge that they were up late into the night talking, “Pym.”

“I’m awake,” she says, sitting upright. He turns and looks at her as she rubs the sleep from her eyes and pushes the hair that’s fallen out of her braid off her face. She turns to look at them and the soft expression drops from her face, “what is it?”

“I’m sick,” Squirrel says. Pym frowns and moves forward.

“Don’t come closer,” Lancelot says and she freezes, “he has pox.”

Recognition flares in her eyes and he watches her take a deep breath and move forward, throwing open the window. The cold air hits them immediately but Lancelot doesn’t dare make a fire until he’s healed. There’s panic on Pym’s face but not in the devastating way that he sees on the man-bloods that he’s seen before. She looks at him and reaches under the cot, shoving a pail towards him. In it he sees there’s soil. He was prepared to go out the window but this is more practical and he presses his hand to it. It takes very little for the Fire to start, showing that if he has been infected it hasn’t gotten bad. He hopes that means Squirrel has a less deadly version, but the color of his eyes doesn’t make him feel better.

“You need to go,” he says to Pym.

“I might be infected,” she says. Horror floods her face, “the market—“

“I didn’t go,” Squirrel peeps out, “I thought I just ate something bad, I didn’t want you to worry.”

Pym turns her head away like hearing the boy is painful and it is. The risk that she might be infected is great but the hope that she isn’t is one he refuses to let go of. They haven’t touched recently and this is a recent thing. Squirrel is alive and in the thick of it. Now that he has the rash it can spread but there’s a chance that he hasn’t spread it to anyone yet.

“You need to go and tell Guinevere,” she says.

“Wait here,” he tells her, “both of you keep your faces to the wall,” he moves out and locates a nearby room that is empty. He comes back and tries the door, only to find it locked, “Pym.”

“Go tell Guinevere,” she orders him again.

“Pym.”

“I said go tell her,” Pym repeats, sounding closer to the door, “I’m staying here with Squirrel.”

Anger and worry surge through him. Is she near Squirrel? Has she already been infected if she wasn’t before? He can heal, they cannot. Why is she putting herself at risk in this way. His hand twists the knob on the door again, trying to open it. He can think of a dozen ways to force it, but if he’s too late and she’s already infected they will condemn so many more to a terrible fate.

“Open the door.”

“Go tell Guinevere,” she says.

“Pym!”

“Don’t open the door!” She replies, her voice sharper than he’s heard it, “go tell Guinevere. She needs to know and she can’t be risked.”  
  
“Are you with him?” He demands.

“That doesn’t matter!” She shoots back, “and it shouldn’t affect you opening the door. I told you not to, stop wasting time.”

He presses his forehead to the wood of the door. Saving her life isn’t a waste of time. He refuses to think about the implication of leaving Squirrel alone. He has no intention of doing that, just going to get Guinevere and returning. He can help him until he recovers. No-one else needs to be sick with this. He refuses to think past that with Squirrel. He will recover. He pushes away from the door and goes to find Guinevere. When she sees him, she is immediately on her feet.

“I’ve healed,” he says, “Squirrel wasn’t at the market yesterday. He’s got pox,” he says, “his eyes have turned,” he adds, “he and Pym have locked themselves in the room.”

Instead of anger, he watches seriousness fall over Guinevere’s face. All the wars in the world are sometimes preferable to a sickness like this. There’s no physical strength or wits that will save someone from their own body.

“We need to send riders to start checking and seeing if anyone else is showing symptoms,” Guinevere says immediately. She looks at him, “get Bors. I need to know where he’s been.”

Lancelot finds Bors easily. He’s not sleeping. He’s curled up in another corner and arms locked around his knees. Sometimes he’s taken to sleeping in their room but he realizes that hasn’t been true. He’s thought nothing of it. How long has Squirrel been feeling ill? Bors looks up at him when he comes in and he doesn’t burst into tears. He does jump up though, his doll clutched to his chest. 

“How long?”

“He said he felt feverish two days ago,” Bors says, “he said he was feeling sick last night and I wanted to tell you but—“

“Why didn’t you tell Gawain or Kaze?”

“I couldn’t find them either!” He says, “Squirrel said to wait here and we’d talk in the morning if he wasn’t feeling better. We haven’t left in days.”

“Have you felt sick?” Lancelot asks quickly. Bors shakes his head, “did either of you come into any contact with man bloods?” Bors looks down. Lancelot crouches so they are at the same level, “I need you to tell me.”

“Just me,” Bors mumbles. Lancelot looks at him curiously and Bors takes a deep breath, “I’m half man blood—half human,” he says, “it’s why I’m not as strong as everyone else.”

Lancelot is surprised by the revelation. Bors is not the first half blooded child he’s encountered. But he’s surprised he hasn’t heard it before. The fear and guilt on Bors’ face is eerily familiar, even if he never had the luxury of a mirror to see it on his own. Unlike the other times he’s seen him afraid, no tears form in Bors’ eyes. But the weight of this is undeniable. Lancelot wonders if he’s told anyone else, though the look on his face says that he hasn’t.

“Come with me,” he says, “we need to tell this to Guinevere,” Bors nods and gets up, “whoever told you that you’re not as strong as anyone else is the kind I would take,” he tells him.

Bors looks surprised and then nods, looking down to hide a smile. Lancelot steers the boy into the room. Immediately everyone turns to face him. He shakes his head to let them know that he hasn’t been infected, though it’s clear from the way he looks.

“He hasn’t been near Squirrel since the symptoms started,” he says.

“Squirrel told me to hide,” Bors supplies.

“Why didn’t either of you say something?” Guinevere asks.

“We thought that the market was more important,” Bors admits.

Guinevere sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, but none of the usual anger comes out. Bors tightens his grip on his doll as she comes forward and Lancelot lays a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. Guinevere lowers herself to his level.

“Next time you tell us.”

Bors nods.

“Is Squirrel going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Lancelot says, not leaving room for any other option.

Guinevere straightens up and gives him a look that he would ask about if he wasn’t so intent on getting back to the sick room. He knows Bors is alright now but he knows that is not necessarily the case. The rustle of Gawain appearing is a welcomed sound, even if Lancelot wants to ask questions about where he’s been. Lancelot knows he’s too guilty of sneaking off to ask anyone why they do it.

“Can you watch the Bors?” He says.   
  
“Of course,” Gawain replies, “come with me.”

He doesn’t think to explain anything, leaving that to the others. He just departs, heading back to the room. If Pym still has the door locked, he thinks he’ll burn it down or come in through the window. But he hopes that he can just tell her he did what was needed so she’ll unlock it. Perhaps she’s been smart enough to stay back. The hope almost makes the dread worse as he arrives at the door and knocks on it.

“Guinevere’s been informed,” he says. There’s no response, “can you unlock the door?”

“You shouldn’t come in here,” Pym says.

  
“I can heal,” he replies.

There’s a sound of frustration.

“Is anyone around you?” She asks.

“No,” he replies.

He hears her move forward and the door unlocks.

He truly does forget to breathe this time.

There’s blood on her. He sees it even as she steps aside and motions him in. Of course she’s given no thought to her own safety and put Squirrel first. He’s been moved from the corner to the cot. He seems to be sleeping fitfully. His lips are red and it’s not hard to see where the blood came from. If it’s just on her skin, there could be a chance—but as she wipes her hands carelessly he knows that there won’t be such luck. If Squirrel is already coughing blood, then there’s little hope this will be the kind of infection that passes easily.

“He started coughing,” she says, “I couldn’t just sit there—“ she reaches up and he snatches her wrist before she can spread the blood. She looks surprised at the contact and then sees her fingers, “oh,” she says, seemingly unsure of what she’s done.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to pull her close before she can truly panic, if that is what she’s about to do. It may be the wrong thing. But she collapses into him all the same, gripping his shirt even with the blood on her fingers. Her forehead presses to his chest and he feels her shiver, remembering for the first time that he opened the window. Instead of doing the logical thing and closing it, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. It only makes her lean more heavily against him.

He feels the wetness against his chest but it’s not blood. He knows the smell of both of their blood. He realizes that she’s crying. Whether she’s afraid for herself or for Squirrel or for them both, he cannot say. He doesn’t remember the last time he wept. The emotion of knowing it’s a matter of time before they are both gone makes him feel more sick than emotional. Or perhaps it’s his mind working desperately to shut this away.

“You’ve seen this before.”

“Once,” she says, her voice choked.

“Was there treatment?”

“I don’t remember,” she says, shaking her head, “it was a long time ago,” she shakes her head, her forehead moving against his chest, “I did what the book said but—“ she trails off.

“What?”

“It didn’t say how to cure it,” she says.

His heart sinks in disappointment as the anger towards the Fey crests. Would his mother have known a way? Would the High Summoner? Is there some way to save them and they just don’t know? It’s hard not to be angry. Or maybe it’s just easier to push the anger aside with Pym in his arms. It always has been. Squirrel starts to stir and he guides her over to the table and seats her down before turning to the boy. His eyes are just as horrible when he opens them.

“Did you tell everyone?”

“Yes,” he says. Squirrel blinks up at him and nods, “rest,” he says.

“Did you have a good time at the market?”

He touches the boy’s forehead again and the heat there is terrifying. Squirrel frowns at the touch and Lancelot looks for the cloth nearby, wringing it out and laying it over his forehead.

“Yes,” he says, “try to rest.”

Squirrel nods and closes his eyes. Lancelot wipes his hands and looks at the book, looking at Pym for permission to touch the precious object.

“May I look?”

She nods, not seeming to care about sharing the secrets in it. Or perhaps there are just no secrets between them. He looks at the book for anything that she may have missed. But it’s just more remedies, things that make people comfortable. Over and over. They are to be taken to the temple and made comfortable. As he turns the pages, he sees the temple repeated over and over again. It means nothing now.

What good does a place like that do when it’s been desecrated?

The connection has to be the Hidden.

“The book keeps talking about the Hidden,” he says, “did you try to summon them?”

“It didn’t work,” she says, “I can’t do it alone. It doesn’t work alone,” she looks at the bucket, “the book says the temple,” she looks at him, “is there a temple?” She asks hesitantly

“Not as you remember,” he says.

  
She lets out a hollow laugh.

“I wasn’t allowed in there,” she admits, “not often. So I wouldn’t be sure about that,” she says.

He nods, prepared to try and guide her to try and speak to them before it gets worse, but he can see the tears have started again. She’s in no state to summon them yet. Squirrel’s breathing sounds steadier but he knows that the fever is making him bleed inside. That soon Pym will start to do the same.

Instead of trying to drag her to the bucket, he pulls her up and against him, letting her fall against his chest and begin to weep once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: illness

It’s not a bad way to die.

Pym reasons as she sits by Squirrel’s bedside, seeing the future laid out in from to her. It’s not. Letting him die alone is something she couldn’t live with—something she thought had happened when the Paladins came. She can help, she can make sure that if it’s his time he doesn’t do it afraid. Though it can’t be his time, he’s in Merlin’s vision. If it’s her fate to die of this so that Squirrel can live. That’s a trade she’s willing to make.

“You should heal,” she says to Lancelot.

He doesn’t respond, though she hears him move. He’s gotten quieter, like he’s slipping back into his old self. She’s fine with dying for Squirrel, but she is sorry that it may mean Lancelot is without them. She knows that Arthur, Guinevere, Kaze, Lancelot—everyone will help. He won’t be truly alone. But she knows that they are most comfortable around each other. She would apologize but Squirrel is half asleep and she cannot bear the thought of him blaming himself for any of this.

“You should go speak to Guinevere,” she adds, turning to face him, “if you can’t be sickened, you could help.”

“I’m not leaving,” he says simply.

She wants to argue the point but the look on his face makes her stop. It’s Squirrel, she can’t blame him for not wanting to leave and pushing him to go seems cruel. From the few things they’ve gotten out of him and the things Bors has said, it’s not been long. Though she knows the blood in his eyes is the thing that starts the true clock. It will be a few days and he will either survive or not. It’s such a cruel thing to think about, she refuses to entertain the thought of him taking a last breath. Even though she knows that it is something she needs to reconcile. She can help make it easier if that is what is going to happen. That matters more than her own sorrow. She picks up the book again to look for anything that could help, but she knows there’s nothing new.

“We should try the Hidden,” Lancelot says.

“The Hidden aren’t going to help,” she says, “they were able to let us do something but this is something else.”

Lancelot looks away and she knows he wants answers. She doesn’t blame him. But making Squirrel uncomfortable or wet just to try something when he’s so fragile is—it’s not something she can bare. It’s better that he has what comfort he can, especially now while he’s still aware of everything. It’s not the answer that Lancelot wants to hear, but it’s the answer that she has. She doesn’t want to argue with him, she’s not sure she has it in her while Squirrel is here fighting for his life.

“You don’t know that,” he says.

She shakes her head. Lancelot has always had more faith. She is going to take so much, she cannot take that as well. He crouches in front of her and she looks away quickly. She refuses to give into crying again and she’s not sure she can stand watching him beg. Not him. Not after everything. She needs them to be on the same page about this, she needs just that and maybe things will be alright. She can’t say how she knows the Hidden aren’t going to help them like this, but she does.

“Not now,” she says.

“Pym,“ there’s frustration in his voice.

“Please, can’t we just—“ she looks at Squirrel whose supposed to have a long, exciting life. She could kill Merlin for this if he dies, “I don’t want him to be in more pain.”

Squirrel being strong enough to withstand things is what has lead them to this point. He is strong. If anyone can fight this off it is him. But he’s a boy. He shouldn’t have to be strong. Not like this. Everything that’s happened in the past few days is important, she’s not saying it isn’t. But it shouldn’t have gotten them to this place. It’s hard not to blame herself for this. If she hadn’t been so intent on her own desires, could she have seen what was going on and helped him sooner? Lancelot’s hand appears in front of her.

“Just try,” Lancelot says and she knows she should argue but she doesn’t have it in her.

She nods and takes his hand, following him over to the clean bucket of water. He holds his hand above it and she watches the green flame start, twisting down to the water. She puts her own fingertips in it and prays that she’s wrong. That maybe the Hidden will continue to show them favor and tell her of some remedy. Something that she’s supposed to do. But when she sees the golden flickers in the water, there’s nothing else that shows up. No humming, no voices, no answers. She thinks she would rip her hands free if not for Lancelot holding her steadily. As it is the lights waver and then they vanish.

“They vanished,” she says, “I didn’t hear anything, I saw them and they vanished,” she takes a trembling breath, “they can’t fix this. Nimue could heal with them but—she’s not here.”

She thinks about Dof and Gawain and those that Nimue couldn’t heal. Even if they could somehow get to Avalon, there’s no guarantee that they would do it in time for her to help. Or that she would be able to. Her idea of helping could be Squirrel going to Avalon and that, right now, seems like another kind of death. She pulls her hand out of the water and wipes it on her dress, looking back at Squirrel until Lancelot settles his hands on her shoulders.

“You’re fighting it,” he says, “don’t be afraid.“  
  
“How can I not be scared?” She demands, “what good are they going to do right now when,“ she drops her voice, “when Squirrel’s already like that?” He says nothing, “I’m sorry, they aren’t going to help.”

“It’s our only chance right now.”

“What if they punish us for trying?” She questions, “we have a way to make him comfortable—“

“No.”

She looks up at him and he’s very serious. It’s that look he gives when he says something he’s used to being followed. It’s tempered, he doesn’t have to fight to recognize her and who he’s speaking to. But the voice makes her cringe all the same. She knows it’s the fear that’s driving her, but given what the Hidden have done it’s a fear that’s warranted. How can she risk the chance of him being comfortable with the hope that he might recover? She seems to anger the Hidden with her presence alone. How can she risk that for Squirrel dying in pain?

“It’s too much of a risk,” she says, stepping back, “they aren’t going to help like this. They—“ she stops herself.

“What?” Lancelot prods.

“They wanted you,” Pym says, “it’s the only thing that makes sense for why they helped.”

Lancelot looks at her quietly.

“Was it them or you?” He asks.

Pym doesn’t know how he can ask that. She wanted him back, of course. But the Hidden have been interested in him from the start. Everything he’s described about hearing the whispers speaks of them intently wanting him. Knowing what she does about his abilities, she can see their reasoning. Her abilities with the Hidden seem tied to Nimue, but she doesn’t think it’s nearly as simple as her wanting something and Nimue agreeing. If it was, Squirrel would be healed with barely a thought.

“Both,” she says, “but if I want Squirrel healed and they don’t—“ she looks over at Squirrel, “it could make things worse. The Hidden don’t always make it better.”

She doesn’t know how to frame it so he understands that her fears about the Hidden aren’t without merit. They are fickle and sometimes terrifying. They do nothing that doesn’t benefit what they want and, when it comes down to it, they want to survive. Nimue may have helped them gain more power or see the use in helping in another way, but with Lancelot and Arthur she knows damn well that they are crucial to the Hidden surviving Uther, the Church and the Ice King.

“We should ask Squirrel,” he says, moving past her.

“No,” she steps in front of him, “he’s a boy. Right now he needs to sleep. He’s taken on too much with this as it is.”

Under any other circumstances the decision would be with his parents, but he has none. Pym knows that they are the closest thing the other has to family right now, but she desperately wishes that Squirrel’s parents were here. This decision feels too heavy for anyone to make. She knows it can’t be on Squirrel. He’s a boy. But it feels wrong for it to be on them. At being denied demanding answers from him, Lancelot turns and walks to the other side of the room. He’s good at being eerily still but she knows that it’s after he’s exercised the energy out of him. She almost wants to send him to run but she knows that it’s not a suggestion he’ll entertain.

She feels so lost.

Squirrel is a boy and he’s one of the last tangible connections she has to Nimue. But more than that he’s her friend. They understand each other with everything that they’ve gone through in a way that she doesn’t think anyone else can. He’s survived so much, the prospect of this seems wrong. She looks over at Lancelot and watches him brace his hands against the window. Any other time he would pray, she thinks. But he doesn’t do that. She thought their enemy would be something they could fight, not something like this.

“We can try again,” she says finally.

He’s back at her side in an instant, so fast it’s almost comical. But it’s not. Nothing will be. They kneel and he summons the Fire and she puts her hand into the water, taking a deep breath. She tries to steady herself, to focus on something other than her fear. Summoners don’t beg. They aren’t desperate or afraid, they are respectful. The Hidden don’t respect fear. She opens her eyes and looks down at the water, fighting the disappointment at the glow but no humming. Nothing to actually give an answer.

“How do I save him?” She tries.

Nothing happens. The wind picks up and she feels her skin pebble in the cold. But any hope she has that it’s the Hidden is dashed when the breeze dies down. She sighs and shakes her head, looking up at Lancelot.

“They’re here but they aren’t speaking,” she says.

“We can try again.”

She gives a tight smile, knowing that he wants to believe it. But she knows in her gut they aren’t going to give the answers that he wants. She stands up, wiping the water on her dress and giving his hand a quick squeeze before returning to Squirrel. He stirs as she sits next to him and she smiles as he opens his horrible eyes to look at her.

“Can we go?” He asks.

“Go where?” She says.

“Home,” he says, “I want to go home.”

Her stomach twists but she ignores the urge to be sick and smiles at him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He’s rolled with all the change like a well oiled wheel. It’s her whose been crying for home, not him. It never even really crossed her mind that he’d be desperate to go back there.

“You and Nimue always wanted to run away,” she says, “now you want to go back.”

He nods, not responding to her gentle teasing. Squirrel hates being sick more than anyone she knows, but he also fears it. They all do. How could they not? Even boys see what happens to those who are sick. Though now they don’t even have the kindness of that.

“I want to go home,” he repeats, “I can see it when I close my eyes.”

She refuses to entertain this is a new symptom and somehow trying to speak to the Hidden has made it worse. Instead she nods like he’s speaking sense and wrings out a new cloth to put on his forehead.

“Close your eyes,” she says, “and think of home. Like Lancelot taught you.”

Squirrel wavers for a moment and then nods, closing his eyes. She waits until his breathing is steady to turn around to try and stifle the sounds that want to escape her. But before she can cover her mouth, Lancelot is there. He guides her hands to a different bucket to wash them and she shakes her head at his caring.

“I don’t think that matters now,” she admits.

He looks up at her and she tries to smile reassuringly back at him. He looks like he does when they speak about the Ash Folk or the Paladins, when there’s nothing to do and no enemies to fight. He cannot fight this and she cannot imagine how difficult that must be. Especially for someone like him. Somehow all three of them are helpless in this situation and she cannot think of anything worse.

“You should go check to see how the riders are getting on. If anyone else has been infected,” she suggests. He opens his mouth, “there might be something we can do to make it easier on them,” he hesitates, “I know you don’t want to, but it’s good that you do. Maybe someone here has a solution. There’s other Fey.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says.

“I know and I don’t want you to go, but you need to. Just for a little bit. We’ll be fine until you get back.”

He hesitates another moment and then nods, not liking the idea but either deciding that she has a point or that right now might not be the time to argue. He heals himself quickly with the pail of dirt by the door and she thinks it might take a moment longer than it did, or she might be imagining things. He gives her one last look and then slips out of the room.

Pym ignores the book and the water and turns back to Squirrel.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: illness

“Lancelot!”

He slows down slightly for a Bedivere to come up to him. He would be surprised to see him dressed for riding but he knows that he shouldn’t be. He feels ill over what is happening in the room but he knows the people he rides with. They would all risk themselves for others. They all have, many times. If Guinevere is just sending them out without any thought, they could lose everyone.

“How are they?” He asks.

“Alive,” Lancelot says. He looks Bedivere up and down, “who else has gone out?”

“Tristain, Kaze, Gawain and I,” he says, “people who are less likely to be hurt by it.” He looks at him sharply, “Tristain can heal, I don’t think this effects Gawain,” he says, “Kaze and I have already had it.”

“What?”

Bedivere seems surprised and Lancelot doesn’t like the sympathy on his face. He tries to remember if he heard about the pox or Bedivere being sick, but he doesn’t think it ever occurred to him to ask. By then Bedivere had taken his Vows and was off fighting in the Holy Land where Lancelot was not permitted to go. Not being born of sin as he was. The stories of the pox are far reaching but he knows the Church says it was a punishment for sin. For dealing with the heretics in the land and giving them coin in return for their goods. The suffering would cleanse the sinners, it was God’s choice to do it with sickness instead of flames. But the flames would come and they would be cleansed all the same.

He thinks of Squirrel laying there.

How did he ever think this was what God intended?

“Lancelot,” Bedivere says his name and settles his hand on his shoulder. Lancelot stiffens at the contact but doesn’t shrug it off. Bedivere steers him to a chair, “we haven’t found anyone showing symptoms. Squirrel saved so many by hiding.”

“He’s bleeding inside,” Lancelot says.

“I’m sorry,” Bedivere replies.

“Where’s Kaze?” He asks. If she survived, maybe there is something there.

“Stay here, I’ll go get her,” Bedivere says.

Lancelot doesn’t understand how he can be expected to be still. To stay anywhere. He wants to run until he cannot breathe, until he can trade his life for the boy fighting for his. He wants to trade his life for both of theirs but he knows Pym will kill him herself for thinking such a thing. He feels guilty enough for it as well. But he wishes desperately for them both to survive. He looks up as Kaze returns with Bedivere. The closed off look on her face tells him what he doesn’t want to hear even before her mouth opens.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Was there anything—“

“No,” she says, “the Paladins brought it. It crippled us,” she continues, “we couldn’t fight it and them.”

He wonders if there will ever be a day when the atrocities of this don’t come back. He was afraid of the hellfire that waited for him upon death, now he thinks that death isn’t a requirement for it. Not if Squirrel and Pym are going to pay the price for what he’s done. He would take the actual hellfire over this. As long as it only came for him. But that is not how things work and he knows better.

“I’m sorry there isn’t something more,” she says. He nods wordlessly, “come with us to speak to Guinevere,” she says.

He thinks to protest but he nods and follows, remembering Pym’s words. He knows it’s a dangerous path to tread, to think about why following her requests feels like a kindness towards someone whose about to pass. She hasn’t shown the symptoms, she might survive. They both might survive. But the idea of her eyes turning like Squirrel’s have threatens to make him feel sick. This time they make it to where Guinevere is waiting and he sees Merlin has joined them.

“Was this in your vision?” He questions him.

Merlin looks up at him with nothing but pity on his face and Lancelot is glad his blades aren’t around his hips. It’s hard enough to control the Fire and that feels less natural than the sword. It doesn’t stop him from moving past everyone towards Merlin.

“I would have said something if it was.”

“You didn’t tell us about the vision before,” Lancelot retorts.

“It wasn’t for you to know,” Merlin says.

“Lancelot—Lancelot!” Arthur is in front of him suddenly, one hand on his shoulder.

Lancelot knows he should be thankful for his presence and the distraction, but the only thought he has is that it will feel good to hurt Merlin. Much better than it felt to burn Abbott Wicklow. This will feel good in a way that he cannot hurt the other people who are dead. Merlin deserves it. He looks almost hopeful and then disappointed when Arthur intervenes.

“I know you’re scared but this isn’t the way.”

Arthur’s words turn over in his head. Is he scared? He’s angry. He’s worried. He’s all the things he felt when the Paladins caught Squirrel and he spit in Father’s face, but with so much less certainty. He knew who he had to fight, it was a question of if he was brave enough to do it. There is no enemy here that he can fight or sacrifice himself for. A few short months ago he would have welcomed death. Felt he deserved it. Even now this has shifted and though he would willingly trade his life for theirs, he would rather they all survived. He looks over Arthur’s shoulder at Merlin but Arthur moves his head so only his face fills it.

“Lancelot,” he repeats his name, his tone changing and Lancelot remembers it from his panic at remembering. When Arthur and Gawain kept him grounded until he could come back to himself. Arthur nods and he mimics the gesture, “good,” Arthur says, lowering his hand.

He doesn’t step too far away though and Lancelot is glad for that. Not attacking Merlin feels very much like a choice at this point and he’s not certain if it’s the right one. What can the druid offer? What can any of these magical forces that have so betrayed the Fey offer? He knows he needs to put the thoughts aside, the sooner they deal with everyone else the sooner they can focus on Pym and Squirrel. And no matter how satisfying the thought of killing Merlin is, the thought of not being there for Squirrel and Pym isn’t one he’s willing to risk. Not for anything.

“How do we help those who are sick?” Arthur asks.

“We didn’t find anyone,” Kaze says, “it may not have spread far.”

“Thank the Gods for that.,” Guinevere says.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, “Merlin you must have seen this before?”

“Yes,” he says, “I don’t know the cure.”

“Surely your magic—“

“I cannot help you that way,” Merlin says, something dark and angry crossing his face, making him look far more like the druid of legend.

“What way can you help then?” Arthur asks, frustration creeping into his voice.

“You need the Hidden,” Merlin says.

“We tried that,” Lancelot says, “Pym says they didn’t speak.”

“Have they ever spoken to her?” Merlin asks and the idea of killing him becomes far more palatable, “the Hidden aren’t here. They aren’t in the cities of Man Bloods,” he looks at him, “if you’re going to ask them for this kind of help you need to go where they’re stronger. You need to go to the Sky People’s Village.”

Lancelot looks at him in disbelief.

“That place is no more,” he says.

“You think one turn with the Paladins is enough to banish the Hidden from their sacred place?” Merlin asks with a cynical chuckle, “there’s a reason that temple was built in stone.”

It’s a preposterous idea. By the time they get there, Squirrel could be dead. But even as he tells himself that he thinks of the boy’s voice, the plea to go home. Had the Hidden whispered to him or was it the ramblings of a fevered child? Does he even have the strength to make the journey? The last question Lancelot can dismiss without a second thought. If Squirrel is not strong enough to do it, then no-one is. And if he is not, he knows the boy would rather go trying than laying in a cot somewhere. He knows it and still he finds himself looking over at Gawain.

“Don’t let him hear you talking of this,” he says, “he’d be on his horse already.”

“Is there a way to make him more comfortable?” Lancelot asks.

“There are things that would help,” Gawain says, “Pym and I can come up with something to help him not bleed more.”

“When we get there, what do we do?” Lancelot asks, looking at Merlin.

“They will guide you,” Gawain says, “or they will guide her.”

The notion that Pym might not accompany them on this journey is laughable. But Lancelot simply nods. He’s not sure anything will be laughable again for a long time. He looks over at Guinevere but she’s already speaking to two of the Raiders and looks up at him.

“Are you taking the second horse or Old Boy?”

“The former,” he says.

She nods and the two Raiders head off.

“Can you speak to Pym?” He says to Gawain, “get started preparing Squirrel?”

“Of course,” Gawain says.

Lancelot looks over and locates Bedivere. When their eyes lock, the priest nods and gets up, coming over to him. Lancelot walks out of the room and Bedivere follows into one of the smaller chapels. He doesn’t know fully why he sends Gawain ahead or pulls Bedivere into a chapel, not until he’s done both of these things. Bedivere seems to know already, he locks the door and looks at him.

“I haven’t prayed since the island,” Lancelot says. Bedivere nods, “I don’t want to.”

“How can I help you?” Bedivere asks.

Lancelot hesitates for a moment but he pushes himself onwards. This isn’t about him. But the deeds that he has done are heavy on him. Is there enough of this sacred place to do anything? Is Merlin right or is this just a kindness for a dying boy? Are either of them things that he has any say in? Lancelot doesn’t know, but he knows that they are about to return to a place that he hoped they never would. Whatever kindness the Hidden have shown him, that might change if he returns to a place he tried to kill them in.

He cannot pretend the thought of killing Squirrel didn’t cross his mind, though that was after he met him. If he had died he wouldn’t be the first child who met such a fate in the chaos of a cleansing.

It’s a place where he would have killed Pym without a second thought.

“I need to confess,” Lancelot says.

Bedivere doesn’t argue or remind him he’s incapable of prayer. He just nods and moves over to the pew, sitting there and motioning Lancelot to sit next to him. Lancelot lowers himself onto the pew next to him and lowers his head as Bedivere prays and blesses him. The absence of feeling after the moment before he was captured, when he’s sure he felt something, feels almost cruel. But perhaps that is his penance.

“I took lives,” Lancelot says, “I burned homes. I hunted stragglers down. I took a child as bait and I killed those who tried to save him,” he continues, “I tracked Nimue with the intention of killing her,” he lowers his head, “I helped desecrate a sacred place to the Sky Folk.”

“What drove you to these actions?”

“I did them in the name of God,” Lancelot says, “and on the orders of His Holiness.”

“Do you regret them, even if the men who drove you to do them do not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know your actions were wrong?”

Lancelot looks down at his hands.

“Some part of me knew they were wrong then,” he admits, “but that part was silent.”

Bedivere is quiet for a moment as the admission hangs heavy in the air. Lancelot knows Pym and Gawain were right, some part of him could distinguish what he was doing was wrong. But that part was twisted and broken. It wasn’t as strong as it should have been, but not as weak as may have excused something. He’s never given confession without receiving lashes for it. He doesn’t know how Bedivere sees penance. Especially now that he cannot pray.

“On your journey, recite His Word,” he says. Lancelot opens his mouth, “I’m not saying it will be an easy thing for you, but try. You’ve done evil in His Name, perhaps it is time to try doing some good in it instead.”

Lancelot closes his mouth and doesn’t protest again. Bedivere bows his head to pray and Lancelot doesn’t try to mimic the gesture. He looks at the cross instead.

“Is he going to take them as punishment?” He says.

“It isn’t for us to know His plan,” Bedivere says, “but if he takes them, it would be because He needs them,” he looks at him, “not to punish you.”

Lancelot wishes that it was easier to believe but he nods anyway. Bedivere gives a tight smile and Lancelot imagines there is no-one else here who understands better.

“Will you pray for them?” He asks quietly.

“I will pray for all of you,” Bedivere says.

“Thank you, my friend,” Lancelot tells him, grasping his shoulder and getting to his feet.

Bedivere seems too shocked by the sentiment to reply and Lancelot doesn’t mind. If this works, there will be time to speak on it when he returns. If it doesn’t, he’s unsure what he’ll do. But returning isn’t high on his list. Right now he doesn’t want to think about it. The sooner they are on the road, the closer they are to getting where they need to be.

Either they all return or Squirrel will get to die at home.

He refuses to entertain any other option. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: illness

“What?” Pym stares at Gawain, “you can’t be serious.”

“It’s your best chance,” Gawain says, “I feel the same.”

Pym has to fight the urge to say she doesn’t care how he feels. Or Merlin. Or anyone. None of them have the right to make this decision for Squirrel. Riding for the ruins of their village on the slim chance that there might be more power there to help them is insanity. And Squirrel—he’s in enough pain as it is. How on earth can anyone think to subject him to traveling. On horseback none the less. The idea is preposterous and she cannot believe that these men have come up with it. Squirrel is a boy and he’s in pain.

“He may not survive the journey,” she says.

“He will,” Gawain says, “and if you leave now you will get there before you succumb to this.”

She looks away sharply, wishing quite badly that Lancelot was here. How on earth can she tell someone who has died that she doesn’t want to think about her own impending death? She doesn’t regret her actions but she cannot pretend she isn’t afraid, no matter how much she wishes that she was braver. Like the Knights who have to be reminded they have people to come home to or they will sacrifice themselves without a second thought. She wonders if they are afraid when they do it, but immediately ignores the question. Of course they aren’t.

“That doesn’t matter,” she says.

“It does,” Gawain tells her, “we need to create something to help keep him steady.”

“But—“

“I know you’re afraid,” Gawain says, “but we both know the Hidden are stronger there. It’s why we had our homes near them.”

Pym feels her face get hot. She is afraid, but how can she not be? With everything that is happening, anyone who loves Squirrel and isn’t afraid is out of their minds. But she knows that the fear for Squirrel goes hand in hand with her fear of the Hidden’s silence. What if she puts him through this entire journey and they say nothing? She knows she won’t live long after that, but it’s a hard thing to think about Squirrel dying in pain because of her failure. At the very least she can do something though that isn’t dependent on whether or not the Hidden have decided to forgive.

“Wait,” she says quickly when Gawain moves towards Squirrel, “I can make something so he’s not in pain.”

Gawain nods and she quickly mixes the things she needs to together. She does her best to ignore Gawain’s gaze on her, even though her fingers know what to do. When she glances over at him, a smile comes across his face. She doesn’t know how anything can summon such a smile at this time, but she feels her face get hot all the same.

“Why are you smiling like that at me?” She asks.

“It’s a marvel watching you work,” Gawain sighs, “you should have learned this long ago.”

She looks back at the blue liquid and tells herself not to remind him that it wasn’t an option. Not after the healer abandoned everyone without a word or a warning. No-one ever would have trusted anyone from her family to not do the same. Not that she would blame them. They both know that. It’s not something she wants to waste what little time she has reminiscing about. Instead she takes the liquid and divides it. She knows she’ll have to make more to get them there but this is a good start. She goes over to Squirrel, gently waking him.

“Drink this,” she says.

“What is is?” He asks.

“It’s going to help you not be in pain,” she says, “we’re going home.”

“We are?” He seems confused and when she touches the back of her hand to his forehead, she’s surprised at how hot his skin is. She refuses to let her worry show on her face. Instead she nods, “okay.”

Squirrel let’s her help him drink the liquid and she watches the pain slide from his face. It’s terrible that she’s gotten so good at this particular potion. Maybe one day she can forget how to make it when people aren’t in so much pain. Together they help Squirrel sit up, though the action makes a whimper escape his throat. She soothes him with a wordless sound as Gawain gets to work, bracing him and weaving vines to help support him and brace against the jostling of the horse.

“Good lad,” Gawain says when they’ve finished and Squirrel is upright, breathing hard. Pym wants to say they should take something so he can lay down, but there’s nothing that will make this comfortable and time is of the essence, “that should help.”

Gawain has used his vines to help lend support and Pym knows how to adjust them. Still the journey is terrifying. Or the pain of it is. In the back of her head she knows they may be able to make it home before Squirrel dies, but they won’t be able to make it home before her symptoms set in. That is nothing to stop her, she can ride through the pain, but hearing Gawain describe the bumps and what they might do makes her keenly aware of how little time she may have. She shoves the knot of panic aside and smiles at Squirrel who looks up at her.

“Where’re we going?”

“Home,” she says, “to get you better.”

He nods and Pym can only hope that what she’s bringing will keep him dazed and unaware. It might be the last kindness she can give. But she hopes not. She hears the sound of hooves and looks out the window to see Goliath and the other horse being led out. The second one looks less than thrilled at the snow but he’s there. Much like Lancelot is capable of inspiring bravery in others, Goliath is capable of doing the same. She jumps when she feels Gawain’s hand on her shoulder.

“Let me do this for you,” he says.

She hesitates but the look he gives her silences her as she lifts her arms so he can wind the vines around her chest. It’s another sobering reminder of what is to come.is it better to die back at the village? She isn’t sure. But she’s glad that she won’t be doing it alone either way.

“He’s frightened,” Gawain says.

“I know,” Pym agrees.

“I was talking about Lancelot.”

“I know that too,” she admits, hanging her head. She knows if this was any other circumstance he’d—well he would probably try to stop her. Probably succeed too. But it’s Squirrel and there’s no sense in being upset about what has already happened, “you’ll look after him if it comes to it, right?” She asks tentatively.

“We all will,” Gawain says. He looks up at her, “he knows being back in our village with you won’t be easy,” he says.

Pym feels her mouth go dry. It’s very low on the list of things to be worried about at the moment—especially now that Gawain is winding vines around her chest to make sure she has some kind of support when she starts bleeding internally, but she would be lying if the fear hadn’t crossed her mind. She’s not sure what being there with him will be like. She’s been in the carnage of his work before but she knows this will be different. How can it not be? She nods to Gawain, knowing that he’s right. It won’t be easy, but so much of this hasn’t been. Why would it start now?

“It’s alright,” she says, “I don’t think I’d want to go there without him, if that makes sense,” she admits, “I wish you were coming as well.”

“My time there was over long ago,” he says, “long before any of this.”

She nods. Leaving someone like Tristain here without someone like him would be foolish. She’s not anxious to have witnesses but she would rather bring them both if Gawain wanted to come. But even if this is her world, she knows the world at large will keep spinning once she’s gone. That protecting Guinevere is the thing that matters more than any other. She would die for the world Guinevere is building. It makes her sad that she can’t even say goodbye to her or to any of them. She thought she could at least get that.

Gawain slices through the brace and she can see how to tighten it when the time comes. He put it to the side as the door opens and Lancelot comes in. The situation is a nightmare but seeing him make her relax. Even just a little bit. Lancelot will do anything to keep her and Squirrel safe, she knows they are in good hands. The only hands she would trust besides Gawain’s. Gawain nods at Lancelot and straightens up.

“They’re ready.”

“We’re leaving out the window,” he says.

“Wait, could you tell—“

She stops as the air seems to die in the room. She turns to see Morgana there and panic makes her mind go blank. Morgana appears when people are about to pass. Gawain and Lancelot step towards Squirrel and she finds herself doing the same. Death cannot have him, not when they’ve just found something that could help. Morgana gives a rattling breath.

“You need to go,” she says, “I cannot control it.”

There is something sorrowful in her voice. Pym nods and out of the corner of her eye she sees Lancelot pick up Squirrel. Morgana’s head snaps towards them and a brief flicker of discomfort passes over Lancelot’s face, but he shoves it aside. Pym fumbles behind her as Gawain shoves the swords into her hands. When she steps towards the window, Morgana is in front of her suddenly. That same rattling breath escaping her lips.

“Hurry!” She says and it sounds like a plea.

Pym goes for the window but Morgana bars her way again. She wants to shout to go ahead and leave her but she finds it’s difficult suddenly to breathe. She barely manages to close her eyes as heat erupts near one side of her face. Vaguely remembering the window, she staggers towards it. Lancelot’s arms band around her and drag her the rest of the way out. He immediately turns her away from the Fire, his hands cupping her cheeks.

“Look at me,” he says, “did you—“

“No, I closed my eyes,” she says, opening them and looking at him, “I didn’t look,” there’s a bright lick of Flame out of the corner of her eye.

“She said to hurry!” Tristain snaps at them.

“Wait the book—“ Pym starts, panic crashing into her.

“I have it,” Lancelot says, taking it out from where it’s wedged under his arm.

They exchange the book and the swords and Pym finds she can breathe easier. For now. Lancelot straps them on and comes to Squirrel. It’s a smooth motion for him to lift the boy into Goliath’s saddle and climb after him. Pym gets onto her mount as well, ignoring how her fingers shake when she does. It’s nerves, she tells herself. Just nerves. She looks back at the place quickly but the flames are too bright to see much of anything. The flames start to dim and she knows she has to trust that they can handle this. She just prays that whatever drew Morgana to them has passed long enough for them to get home.

Getting home is what matters now, even if it doesn’t feel like home.

Still she finds herself looking for Guinevere, even if she cannot see her. It’s sad how history repeats and once again a friendship is broken apart without a word. Not in the sense that they aren’t friends Pym knows firsthand that it’s hard to be friends with a ghost. And not all ghosts are like Gawain. She tightens her grip on the reins and looks at Goliath, Squirrel and Lancelot. Whatever adjustments Lancelot has made to make this more comfortable for Squirrel are finished and he nods at her.

“Let’s go,” Lancelot says, digging his heels into Goliath.

Without a word from her, the horse follows.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: illness

His heart doesn’t stop pounding.

He has to look back at Pym several times to assure himself that she’s still here. Even though he can smell her, even though smell has always been how he’s found her. Smell isn’t enough, he finds. Or maybe it’s the way that Squirrel’s scent has changed with the sickness that has taken hold of him. The idea that Pym could be dead from Fey Fire is one that he hadn’t thought of in some time. Much less her dying while he was standing right there. He cannot believe she managed to close her eyes in time. That the only redness in them is from her earlier tears and that things aren’t worse.

Of all the times for it to happen.

The again, why would anything about it be convenient? Nothing about her has been so far. And why around Morgana? Nothing had triggered it before and she had been around all of them. It wasn’t just to protect, it was also to help. He knows these are things he needs to consider and ponder out, though at the moment it’s truly hard to focus on anything but the distance between them and a place he hoped never to return to. He pushes their pace as much as he dares, if they keep it up they should get to the village with a day to spare. Judging by how soon after showing symptoms people usually wound up dying. If it moves faster through Pym—

He cuts the thought off swiftly. He’s not getting lost in it. Not with Pym dying of sickness or with her dying because Tristain made unaided Fire. Squirrel is mostly dazed and it makes him think how many times before he’s wished for his silence. Now as he shivers in front of him, almost lost to the world, Lancelot would give anything for the chatter. Either way, Squirrel seems to have a knack for doing the exact opposite of what Lancelot desires in any given moment. He can only hope that changes. He cannot even dare think that he wants Squirrel to not get better so the boy will do the opposite.

“Why do you keep looking back?” Pym questions, bringing her mount alongside his, “do we need to go back?”

“No,” he says, “she knows how to withdraw the Fire,” he says.

“And she has Gawain and Kaze,” she points out. He nods, “so why—“

“You were close to getting hurt,” he says.

She nods. Something close to a smile comes to her lips but it’s a hollow thing.

“It’s not my first Fey Fire,” she points out. She shrugs, “and no-one got blinded or stabbed this time. So I’d say we’re moving in the right direction.”

He tries to smile back but Squirrel is a sobering reminder of what is happening. He would be the one to want them to laugh but it’s impossible to do it. It’s strange. Riding away has always given him a sense of freedom. Tracking has always been his escape, one of the few that was permitted. Even though there were people with him, they didn’t care what happened to him and if it came down to it, he would be on his own. The idea of being on his own wasn’t bothersome. Now he can think of nothing worse, especially under these circumstances.

“I’m alright,” Pym voices.

“For now,” he says.

She presses her lips together, looking down and tightening her fingers on the reins. He knows that he’s crossed some line with those words. It seems to be something he’s developing a knack for. But her silence is a level beyond her usual arguments. He doesn’t blame her for not wanting to speak on it, he doesn’t even want to think about it. He just wants to—fight it. Fix it. Do something. Talking has never been something he places great value on. He’s practiced in it, but it’s like the Fire. It’s new. It’s awkward. And right now it’s the only thing he has.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No, you’re right,” she says, “We were sleeping in the same room, I touched Squirrel’s shoulder that night to let him know we were back. I may already have been infected,” she shrugs, “but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t leave him alone or risk someone else.”

He loathes how that makes sense to him. It’s as simple and it’s not. He bites back the urge to say that isn’t something she should do. It’s Squirrel, he shouldn’t be alone. What she says makes sense. At the same time he wants to scream that she shouldn’t. That she’s not someone who should be sacrificing themselves for anyone. Him, Sauirrel, Guinevere—she needs to survive. She’s one of the people the world needs. But he cannot say that when the wound of him sacrificing himself is still so fresh.

“I know,” he says.

“Then why do you look so angry?” She questions.

He looks at her in surprise. He’s angry, but he thought he was hiding it. He’s angry and worried and a storm of other emotions. He wants to say he’s not angry, but he is. He wishes that it wasn’t the case but her disregard for her life is infuriating. In the same way it’s infuriating how she doesn’t leave him alone, now she doesn’t excuse his past but pushes him to be better. It’s infuriating and painful and God help him, he cannot fathom the idea that she won’t be around to do it for longer.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, “either of you.”

“I don’t want to die!” She says emphatically, “I’ve been afraid of not being around you since—“ her brows draw together and her finds himself oddly interested in her answer, “I guess since before we got on that ship the first time, when Squirrel had to hide your marks.”

The answer surprises him more than he cares to admit. She was afraid of him and angry with him for a lot of things. He thought it was guilt that drove her to dismiss the idea of him leaving, not the desire to have him around. It’s probably a combination of all of those things and more. He doesn’t understand how someone can feel so many contradictory emotions and manage to sort through them the way she does. But she does it. With the kind of Grace he never would have thought existed in a Fey.

“That’s a long time,” he says.

“I know,” she admits, pushing her hair behind her ear. She flexes her fingers and he sees the white knuckle grip she has on the reins.

“Loosen your hand,” he says, “your fingers are going to cramp.

She looks down, not seeming to realize her iron grip on the reins. She flexes and relaxes her fingers. She isn’t the strongest rider but she isn’t afraid of being on a horse as far as he knows. Stupidly, he realizes the reason for her trembling tight grip. They’re alive, they have the essentials. There is no time to waste.

But she isn’t dressed for this.

“Where’s your cloak?”

“It’s ash I expect,” she says, “it’s fine—“ he pulls his horse to a stop, “what are you doing? We don’t have time to go back,” she frowns and then smoothes her face out.

“What else?”

“Gawain made me one of those, in case I got sick sooner,” she said and his chest tightens, “but it’s fine, I’ll make one when we camp.”

In case isn’t something he wants to consider. He looks down at Squirrel who is propped up, more like Bors’ doll than a boy. But he’s not bleeding like he should be. He’s stiff and tucked into his cloak. If the brace is helping, if it’s making him even a little more comfortable, is it worth going back for. The idea of both of them being like that is nauseating. He can brace Squirrel. He doesn’t know how he can do it to both of them, but the idea of either being in pain isn’t one he can accept. Not like this. He sees Pym sigh and watches her breath plume, reminding him that it’s more than just the impending illness.

“Come on,” she says.

“Wait,” he tells her. She looks at him, opening her mouth to argue and he shakes his head, “here.”

He undoes the cloak he’s wearing and passes it to her. She looks at him hesitantly but takes it. They both know the cloak isn’t exactly a necessity for him. Between his layers and his body heat, it isn’t a great loss. It wouldn’t matter if it was. He holds the horse steady as she fastens it and drags the hood up over he hair. It’s laughably large on her, but it helps protect her against the cold. She looks at him from inside the cowl he’s hidden in most of his life and he finds it oddly hard to see.

“Thank you,” she says.

He nods, not trusting his voice and digs his heels into Goliath who snorts a warning at the command. He smoothes an apologetic hand down the horses neck and they continue down the road. It’s distracting to see glimpses of his cloak out of the corner of his eye. But when he looks at her she seems far less tense. When he looks at Squirrel, he seems the same. It’s good, or as good as anything can be right now. He pushes their pace a bit more, taking advantage of the momentary luck. Knowing full well that it could run out. Nightfall comes too soon and though they push for a while, eventually he makes them stop.

“We’re rearing here,” he says.

“We can keep going,” she starts but he shakes his head.

“You both need rest,” he says.

She nods though it looks like if it were up to her, she would keep going. He understands the sentiment but he also knows they need to rest. They have to do what they can to help Squirrel hold on until they are able to get there and figure out what to do. That means letting him rest and keeping his strength up. He sets up camp off the road and finds they are well outfitted by the Raiders for this journey. As he sets up Pym sits with Squirrel and cooks the broth that they’ve been given. She gently rouses him from his drugged state and coaxes him to drink.

“Where are we?”

“We’re going home,” she reminds him, “remember?” He nods but if he does or doesn’t is anyone’s guess.

“Did I get everyone sick?”

“No,” Pym says, “we checked.”

“I got you sick,” he says.

“No,” she cuts in instantly, “I got myself sick. But it doesn’t matter. We’re going home and we’ll find a way to get us both better,” he manages a half hearted skeptical look and he sees Pym falter for a moment.

“We’re going to your home,” he says crouching front of the boy, “and we will figure it out there,” Squirrel hesitates, “have I ever lied to you?”

“No,” he says.

“So believe what I’m saying,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel looks at him for a moment and Lancelot hides his panic. He’s able to hide everything from most people. And what he cannot hides the drugs and the sickness make hard to see. Squirrel wavers for a moment and then is promptly sick in the snow in front of him. Lancelot steadies the boy. There’s only a little blood at the end and it’s bright, not the black blood that he’s afraid of seeing. Squirrel all but collapses into his chest and he holds him. Even as he weakly pushes at him.

“M’gonna get you sick,” he says.

“You cannot,” Lancelot reminds him, “why not?”

“You’ve got powers,” Squirrel remembers, “you’re Fey.”

Pym looks horrified above Squirrel’s head but quickly shoves the expression aside. The shiver that goes through her has nothing to do with the cold. Lancelot pushes his own concern aside and guides the boy into a more upright position, wiping the side of his mouth. Squirrel seems to have trouble focusing on him and he picks him up, carrying him into the tent and getting him settled. He makes sure Squirrel is on his side in case. Half asleep, he looks at him.

“Where’s your ugly horse?”

“We know he’s not ugly,” Lancelot says.

“Right,” Squirrel says, “I was just trying to slow you down.”

Lancelot thinks of slowing down Abbot Wicklow using everything that Squirrel did. Including spitting in his face. He knows the boy has saved his life in many obvious ways, but he’s saved them in not so obvious ones as well. He nods at the half asleep boy who he hopes doesn’t die.

“You‘re very brave,” Lancelot says.

“It’s cause I’m a Knight,” Squirrel remembers, “and you’re my Squire.”

“It’s my honor,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel smiles at that and dozes into a fitful sleep. Lancelot can feel a tightness in his throat that’s alarmingly physical, though he knows there’s no one with a garrote near him. He doesn’t want to leave Squirrel at all, but one look at Pym tells him that she is not going to eat or drink unless she is forced to. He turns the snow over with his boot and puts broth in one of the bowls, handing it to her.

“You need to drink,” he reminds her. She open her mouth to protest and then takes the bowl.

“You do too,” she reminds him, looking at him pointedly.

Sensing he’s not going to get out of it, he takes some for himself and sits next to her. Neither of them speaks, he knows they’re both intent on listening to Squirrel breathe. He keeps breathing, long after they’ve finished their soup and he’s doused the fire. He uses Fey Fire to keep the horses warm, keeping it low enough that it’s difficult to see. Pym is running her fingers through Squirrel’s hair and quietly reassuring him as he falls back to sleep.

“We could keep watch?” She suggests.

“Come here,” Lancelot says.

She takes less convincing to come over, her need for sleep and heat winning out against everything else. His cloak has helped to keep her warm but she still relaxes further when she’s tucked against his chest. It feels far more intimate than the last time they huddled together for warmth, winding up pressed spine to spine. But it’s been weeks of them sleeping together out of something other than necessity. It just makes him think of that first time, how the greatest threat there was damaging her reputation and chances at a marriage she says she doesn’t want. Which he is selfishly glad for. The idea of her wanting that made him feel as though he had swallowed something unbearably hot. Now he finds he would take the pain of that over the pain of what might be coming. He forces himself to steady his breathing, though he has no desire to actually sleep. It helps give Pym something to focus on so she can drift off.

He holds himself in that half asleep state, aided by the sound of her breathing and the scent of her, wrapped in his cloak.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: illness

She watches them ride, something bittersweet aching in her chest.

It’s not a sight she thought she would see like this. She expected it at some point, them riding off on knightly adventures. Like Gawain. Maybe she even expected one day for Squirrel to get hurt. But she expected to be able to help, if she was around. Now watching them ride ahead, she wishes that was still something that scared her. What is actually happening is so much worse. She can’t fix Squirrel and she cannot take away the pain and fear Lancelot is going through. She can just hope that the Hidden know how crucial Squirrel is to their survival. That Nimue has a way to save him. Her connection with Nimue has always been something she treasured but there are things they didn’t talk about. She hopes whatever connection is formed is clearer.

“Pym.”

She looks up to see Lancelot in front of her. He was ahead of her. His eyes move across her and when she tries to straighten up her back aches. She didn’t realize how hunched over she was. He steadies Squirrel and reaches over, pressing the back if his hand to her forehead. She looks up at him and some of the panic leaves his eyes. He’s worried, she knows that. But he’s also worried that the illness has already taken hold of her. It moves fast with Fey, but they should have time before she gets bad.

“I’m fine,” she looks at the horse, “I just go lost in my thoughts, let’s keep going.”

He looks at her for another moment and then nods. Pym straightens up, hiding her discomfort in the cowl. It’s just some soreness. She’s not used to this kind of riding. She can’t let her own discomfort slow them down. Not with time running out. She wishes that all the roads weren’t looking the same so she could have a better sense of where they were. Logically she knows, but visually it’s a little disorienting. It also makes her think about the sea. She knows that she would have stayed on land to help Guinevere, but a part of her was looking forward to more adventures there.

She jumps when she sees Goliath is suddenly back.

Lancelot reaches over and attaches a lead to the bridle. A knot twists inside her at the realization that this isn’t just being lost in thought. It’s not just an ache in her back. She looks up at Lancelot whose closed off his emotions. Their eyes meet and she does her best to do the same. He lets her have the illusion of it anyway as he secures the lead to Goliath and they continue on. Embarrassment and fear mix together, but she refuses to give into the bile in the back of her throat. It’s not bad, not yet. She can face this with some scrap of dignity and stop slowing them down. It’s just death, after all, it’s a natural part of life. It’s something she knew was coming. Ever since Merlin said she wasn’t there. All the hope she tried to believe in, it all seems foolish.

She’s not one for miracles, no matter how Lancelot describes her.

She almost jumps when they stop and looks around. Something is vaguely familiar about where they are, but she knows that could be a trick. It’s becoming dark out, but they are stopping earlier than last time. Surely they cannot afford to do this. She doesn’t need to rest, they need to get to the village before she’s too sick to be of any use. When she opens her mouth to say this to Lancelot, she tastes sour and the air feels mercifully cold. She turns her head and it takes the world a moment to stop spinning. She knows it’s difficult to feel if you have a fever yourself, but it’s no great guess that they are headed in that direction. She tells herself she has to be brave. The only thing that could make this worse is wasting Lancelot’s time taking care of her.

“We should keep going. This is starting to look familiar,” she says.

“We’ll start at first light,” he says, something low and fearful in his voice.

She opens her mouth to reassure him and he looks at Squirrel purposefully. The riding is bad, it’s not something he should be doing. She walks her mount forward and looks at him. Black splotches dot his skin in much greater number. His body cannot take the constant jostling. Is stopping the right thing to do? Is any of this right? She forces herself not to panic and then not to feel worse when she reaches out a trembling hand and presses it to Squirrel’s neck. His heart is beating steadily and though he has a terrible fever, he’s breathing.

“First light,” she agrees.

Lancelot dismounts and gets Squirrel down. Pym swings herself off the horse as carefully as she can, before realizing that it’s a foolish idea. She grips the saddle as her legs buckle, keeping herself upright as best she can. The world tilts nauseatingly but she tightens her grip and shoves the desire back. She can do this. She forces herself to breathe through her nose, taking in the sharp cold air. Lancelot is by her side in a flash but she shakes her head.

“I’m alright,” she says, making sure her feet are as steady as they can be and opening her eyes, “let’s get somewhere for Squirrel to rest.”

He hesitates for a moment before recognizing the logic in her words. He doesn’t want to leave, but if he cannot be a few steps away than they are in for a lot more trouble. There’s still a bit ahead and if she has any hope of communicating with the Hidden, she knows he needs to be able to protect Squirrel. She nods to show she’s alright and he moves quickly. She forces herself to be as present as she can be, looking between him and Squirrel. It takes a long time and no time at all before the tent is pitched and he’s back.

“Wait here,” he says and there’s something like a plea in his voice that makes her nod.

He gets Squirrel settled and then returns, putting an arm around her waist. She puts hers around his shoulder and lets him help her to the Fire. He hasn’t even bothered with the pretense of a normal one, but she’s grateful for the bright green that flickers there. He gets the horses settled and then comes back, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. He doesn’t need to say anything. The look on his face says it all.

“It’s fine, we’re close,” she says, “it’s just a fever.”

He says nothing again but she can see that isn’t the answer he wants to hear. No more than it’s the one she wants to give. But it’s true. It won’t be as bad for a little longer and when it is, hopefully by then Squirrel will be alright. The fever isn’t even as terrible as his. She has nothing to be afraid of or complain about. She moves to do something except sit there and feel useless but Lancelot puts a hand on her shoulder.

“You should rest.”

“I can’t,” she says. He looks confused, “if I rest I’m going to start to panic so—I need to do something,” she smiles weakly, “and I cannot read that book one more time.”

If she does and sees that going to the temple is supposed to help, without knowing if there is a temple left there. Or how that’s supposed to help. She feels like she might truly go crazy. Or give into the pain she can feel blossoming in her skull. It’s another symptom, she knows that. But she cannot say it. She isn’t a brave Knight like them, but she can be a little brave. Even just like this. She smiles again and he nods, accepting her words and seeming to know not to push her right now. He heats more broth. Squirrel barely manages a few mouthfuls before he’s asleep again. Even though she knows she should eat it, it seems nauseating.

“I’m not hungry,” she says.

“I know,” he replies, “it’s the fever.”

She nods, telling herself it’s foolish to feel anything about hearing it said aloud. She knows it’s the fever. He hands her a cup of it and she hesitates to take it. Just the smell makes her stomach want to roll.

“I didn’t make it very hot,” he says.

“Is that supposed to help?” she asks, only half joking.’

“Plug your nose and drink it,” he advises.

She hesitates for another moment before forcing herself to do just that. It’s awful, but she gets it down all the same. Lancelot watches her as she presses her hand to her mouth and forces back the wave of nausea. It abates though and when she opens her eyes the world seems a little clearer. It’s a false, cruel hope but she’ll take the moments of feeling well. She meets Lancelot’s concerned gaze and tilts the mug to show him it’s empty. He looks at her in confusion and she smiles for real.

“My mother used to make me show her I had finished,” she says, “when I got sick,” she sets it down and rises her mouth with water, “I never thought I’d be showing it to you,” he says nothing, “though I’m not sure my mother ever looked as worried as you do.”

She means it as a teasing thing but he looks down, almost guilty. It really does feel as though they have slid back into old roles. She has no idea what lines she is crossing with him and she’s not sure he does either. The difference is that before she didn’t truly care what lines she crossed. He was a monster before he was anything else. And she had to remind herself of the sentiment that all Fey are brothers a lot more frequently than she is proud of. Now, though, when he looks down she feels terrible. And not in a physical way.

“You know no matter what happens, you’re going to be alright,” she says.

“Don’t do that,” he says and she tries not to shiver at the rasp of his voice.

“I just want you to know no matter what happens—“

“Nothing is going to happen to either of you,” he says.

There is something unforgiving in his eyes when he looks at her, like he’ll fight the sickness right out of her body before he lets her succumb to it. Irrationally, she wishes that it was so simple. That he could do something like that. But it’s not how the world works. He cannot fix them. He cannot fight this. It’s something beyond even the amazing things that he can do. She lays her hand on his knee and holds it there even when he stiffens at the contact.

“Whatever happens—“

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“Lancelot,” she sighs his name, half exasperated at how he’s acting. She’s used to being the one on the other side of the table. But he pushes aside any reassurance she tries to give, “it’s going to be alright.”

She tries to make the words as strong as she can but it’s difficult in the current circumstances. She wants to believe that’s the case but she doesn’t know. And that’s before she wrestles with what would come next, should the worst happen. Lancelot’s spent his entire life believing that hellfire is what happens to the Fey when they die. She knows he’s moved beyond that, but she can’t imagine the prospect has left his mind. It certainly hasn’t left hers. She doesn’t believe in what he believes, but being faced with crossing that journey sooner rather than later, she finds she’s not sure what to think about what comes next.

“You need to rest,” he says.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she replies with a shrug.

He stiffens and then seems to deflate slightly, moving closer to her. She’s been thankful for his abilities before, but now she’s truly grateful. She’s glad there’s one person here who can be nearby without the threat of them falling ill. Though she knows there’s others—she has to correct herself. She’s glad that he’s able to be around them and not get sick. She’s not sure if she’s brave enough to face what comes next on her own.

“You don’t need to reassure me,” he says finally, “you’re the one whose sick, you should save your strength.”

“Reassuring you makes me feel better,” she says, “like I’m not completely useless,” he looks surprised at her confession and she shrugs, pulling his cloak tighter around her, “and I want you to remember it, no matter what happens,” she feels her face get hot, “if it helps.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that and she doesn’t blame him. She’s not sure what to say about any of this. She’s not sure she has the time left to figure it out either. Which is a foolish, selfish thing to worry about when Squirrel is the one who needs more time. He’s a boy, she’s young but she’s grown. She’s had something of a life. A much more exciting life than she ever could have dreamed. Even if there are suddenly dozens of things she wishes that she had the time to do.

“I don’t want to rely on my memories,” he says.

She thinks of the things he’s had to remember and nods.

“I can’t blame you, all things considered.”

He hesitates a moment.

“I hate being powerless,” he says.

She smiles sympathetically.

“No, it’s not a very pleasant feeling,” she agrees. He looks over at her curiously and she shrugs, “I can’t fathom doing what you can do,” she says, “but feeling powerless—I understand that,” she looks at the corner of the Fire, “can I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything,” he says.

She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly nervous.

“Can you make sure it doesn’t happen in the village for me?” She asks, refusing to look over at him, “I always thought I’d die there and—so much has changed. I can’t stand the thought.”

He doesn’t touch her but he shifts closer to her, letting her know that he’s there in his own way.

“Is there somewhere you want to go?” He asks finally.

“Avalon,” she says, “there isn’t time to get there but if I do, could you take me there?”

“Yes,” he says.

She closes the distance between them and leans her head on his shoulder. A lot has changed. So much of her life is wonderfully different. But it’s a life she feels proud of. She wants different things though. Adventure and seeing the world and seeing Guinevere’s new kingdom. Mostly she wants to be around and see the people she cares about. She wants to have countless more nights in front of green Fires, feeling the warmth of Lancelot’s skin against her own.

“Are you scared about going home?” He asks.

“That doesn’t feel like my home,” she admits, “if that makes sense.”

“The island didn’t feel like my home either,” he offers.

“I’m glad you understand,” she says, “I’m glad you’re here,” his arm comes around her and she leans more heavily into him, suddenly glad that she doesn’t have to worry about supporting her aching head, “do you think either of our beliefs are right about what comes next?”

He hesitates a moment. She knows now is not the time to discuss such things. And she’s afraid of the answer. Either way, she finds she’s not anxious to find out what comes next. Not when there’s so much she still wants to do here.

“I think you should rest,” he says.

“Can you hear Squirrel?” She asks, “the cool feels nice,” she feels him nod and realizes she’s closed her eyes, “I just want to stay here for a little longer.”

“We can stay,” he promises.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: illness

The path is immediately familiar as he leads the horses there.

It’s strange to be returning under these circumstances. He’s come back to villages he’s destroyed, he’s even returned with Pym and Squirrel. But never to their village. The only times he’s taken Fey back to their villages like this has been to lure the other stragglers back. He knows he would have let Squirrel flee as he did, he had no use for little ones and he couldn’t do more than give them a chance at survival. He may even have hesitated at killing Pym, like he did with Kaze. But he knows there’s a good chance that if he had been on this road with them the last time he was here, they both would have died. It’s a sickening thought, given how badly he wants them to live.

The last time he was here, the air was heavy with smoke an ash. Now it’s crisp and cold, with only the snow drifting through it. It would be something he would note as an inconvenience. The cold sometimes makes things harder to smell. Any Fey who escaped would have used it to their advantage, though in his experience the panic usually made them foolish. They made mistakes. But there’s no need for cover or hiding at the moment and no amount of cold can erase the smell when he picks it up. He’s good at not getting overwhelmed by smells. Or choosing the ones he lets overwhelm him. Squirrel and Pym are very firmly in the latter.

Which is why he smells their dead kin first.

He knew that it would be something to occur, but he’s not prepared for the panic that it summons in him. Families usually have a common thread in their scents, like different shades of the same color. Closer relatives have closer shades. And these are close relatives. Squirrel is half awake at best, though their luck has waned with getting him into a stupor. Lancelot can smell him mixed with the rot of a decomposing body. Not burned. Just decomposing. The scent of Pym’s family is mixed with ash. He knows what was done to her kin. What was done to all of their kin. He says nothing as they move closer. Pym recognizes it first and he hears her breath catch at something familiar.

“We’re close,” she says.

He nods, stopping them and looking at her.

“It won’t be as you remember,” he warns.

“I know,” she drags her eyes to Squirrel and he notes the splotch on her cheek as the sickness progresses, “let’s go.”

He nods and moves them forward. He has to keep Squirrel with him but he’s used more rope to secure her to the saddle. He knows she’s secure but he doesn’t want her twisting too much. If she falls to the side it will keep her there but he’s seen the way she touches her temples and it won’t be kind to her head. She’s staunchly refused to take any of the potions that keep Squirrel half asleep. It’s not a luxury they have while she’s riding alone. The horses move forward until they crest the top of a hill. He stops them again as they look down at the ruins of the Sky People’s Village.

There’s less stone.

But not enough time has passed for everything to be gone. There’s skeletons of houses, charred and twisted by smoke. The mudded walls are chipped and damaged, but some houses almost look like they are only missing the roof. Like they are almost inhabitable. Pym’s eyes are fixed on a spot and he follows it, instinctively turning Squirrel away even though the boy’s eyes are closed. A tremor that has nothing to do with the sickness races across Pym’s frame as she stares at the skeletons still tied to the crucifixes.

“You just leave them there?” She asks.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

Her throat bobs.

“Can you smell who they are?”

It’s a fair question. He knows where it’s going. What she wants to know. He wants to tell her they will do that later but he’s not sure she’s physically capable of leaving without knowing. Squirrel is asleep and he knows neither of them can smell this like he can. He pushes Goliath forward, more into the village. They stop nearby and he focuses, taking a deep breath. He doesn’t dare hope but there’s something like it that gets dashed as the familiar smells hit his nose.

It’s a cruel thing that he recognizes all three.

He looks at Pym and it shows on his face. She presses a hand to her mouth and he’s not sure if it’s emotion or illness that makes her sick off the side of the horse. He can’t blame her for the reaction. He can just move forward and steady her as best he can. Steady both of them. He pulls out the waterskin and hands it to her. She stays hunched over for a minute, heaving but the broth doesn’t give her stomach much to expel. She looks up at him.

  
“Tell me,” she says.

“Bors, you,” he points at two and looks at the final one, “Squirrel.”

“My mother was in the tent I ran from,” she says.

He looks at the remains of the tallest skeletons of the group that smell like her. It could be her father or grandfather or both. It’s difficult to say. Separating the men from the women and children is something they do, but the men usually die fighting. Witches are burned. Men are quartered. But it’s all a matter of what there is time for. The Sword was what mattered the most here. She looks at the other two skeletons. They’re smaller. Lancelot has seen so many bodies reduced to skeletons, he knows they are women. Mothers. Their mothers. Pym’s mother has been burned too, that much he can guarantee if she was in the tent that Pym escaped from. Squirrel’s father died different but he doesn’t dare say it. He hears her fumbling and turns to see her struggling with the rope around her waist.

“We have to get them down,” she says.

She’s frustrated enough that he watches the vines appear on her skin before the rope falls. She dismounts and almost falls and he swings himself and Squirrel down. He manages to put a blanket over Squirrel, just in case he wakes up and comes to Pym as she pushes herself away and towards them.

“Let me—“

“Do not tell me not to help,” she says, turning towards him.

He’s surprised at how far the blue-green vines reach across her skin. He looks from her to the lake but sees nothing. Asking her if she hears anything right now isn’t going to be good. Her skin is pale and splotched with the heat but that doesn’t seem to matter to her. He knows her well enough to understand she’s going up there and the best thing that he can do is make sure she doesn’t break her neck in the process. He makes his way over with her. He forgets sometimes how short she is and how tall the crucifixes are.

“I’ll get them down,” he says.

  
“No,” she starts, “I will—“

“They are strung up on the ground and then raised,” he says, keeping his voice as neutral as he can, “so no-one can reach them. You cannot climb up.”

She opens her mouth and then seems to realize the logic in what he’s saying. It’s a cruel, cruel thing and it’s not something he ever wanted to tell her in the shadow of her family’s skeletons. But he doesn’t have a choice. The only thing that could make this worse would be her trying to climb it and breaking her neck in the process. She looks at the wood and the skeletons and then back at him. The vines across her skin retreat as she does and her scent lessens somewhat, though he selfishly wishes it wouldn’t.

“How do we get them down?”

He doesn’t think the charred wood of the pyre will support his weight. He has no idea what the Sky Folk do with their dead. But he knows how he can get them down.

“I’ll light the pyres and when they’re lower, we’ll get them down,” He says. She grips his wrist.

“Use the Fey Fire?”

He nods, he can do that request. It would not be easy to start regular fire with the state of the wood. The Fey Fire makes quick work of the pyre and the bottom part of the crucifix, he’s able to steady the rest of it. The skeleton doesn’t add much weight. He guides the first one, Bors’ mother, down and lets Pym undo what is left of the ropes. They do the others, working in tandem to get them down and to get the bones free. When the group is down, he comes back over to her. She’s lowered the arms so they are by their sides, still laying on their crosses. She seems to almost be in shock. He can’t blame her, even if it’s something they can’t afford right now.

“What do you do with your dead?” He asks.

“We burn them, on top of the temple,” she says, “with offerings.”

He nods and sets to work, fashioning something they can use to move the skeletons. Once the planks are lashed together, they move them onto it. Her fingers tremble the whole time, but he’s not sure his would be better in this situation. He remembers being sick when he saw the Ash Folk burning as well. He gets the stretcher attached to the horses.

“Can you lead them?” He says.

She nods and takes their reins. Squirrel is still unconscious, but he stirs as he picks him up. Lancelot is careful that he doesn’t see the ruins of the village, only the trees and the sky. It’s a testament to how sick Squirrel is that he doesn’t try to twist around. He just looks and then focuses on Lancelot.

“Are we home?”

“Almost,” he says, “close your eyes, we’ll be there when you open them.”

For once he listens and Lancelot wants to scream with how unfair it is. He doesn’t and just adjust the blankets around the boy as Pym leads them towards the temple. It’s not very far but he’s terrified of the split second between when Squirrel exhales and when he inhales. He’s afraid of the boy dying afraid in this place. He can suddenly understand Pym’s hesitation in coming here. He wishes that he had understood it sooner. She hesitates momentarily and he inhales, pushing the other scents and thoughts aside. The burial pyre is easy to smell.

“It’s up there,” he says.

“It curves to get there,” she says, “there’s another way, come on,” she says, leading them from the smell. He looks at her curiously as the ground starts to level out some, “this is how they used to bring the bodies up there. There was another path the mourners would take.”

“Perhaps you should go that way,” he says.

  
“Let’s get them up there first,” she says, “if the Hidden want us to take a certain path, we’ll know soon enough.”

As they walk he recognizes the tracks that have been dug into the earth over bodies being carried up there. They’re deep, multiple bodies have been brought here. Together they make their way in a wide spiral that opens to a hill, the pyre is next to a rock. His feet falter. It’s close to where he first found Squirrel, closer than he was expecting it to be. They make their way up to the rock and he settles Squirrel down.

“You said we weren’t there yet,” Squirrel complains.

“I said that when you opened your eyes you would be,” Lancelot says, “stay here.”

He helps Pym get them onto the lower slab, one that he can smell the dead Sky Folk on. If they were whole, they wouldn’t fit. As it is, they only do because they put the makeshift sled on it. She looks at it and at the stone.

“We need offerings,” she says.

“What kind of offerings?”

“Flowers, plants—“ she looks around at the snow.

Lancelot nods and goes into the pack, laying down the things they can afford to spare. Pym shakes her head and he lays down a few others that they cannot. She smiles apologetically and he knows this isn’t either of their first choices. From inside the cloak, she pulls out a bit of rope and also lays it onto the pyre. He supposes that is how this is supposed to work. Offerings aren’t supposed to be things that are easy to give up, he knows that from the beliefs that he was raised in. From the blood that he gave in the Ash Folk temple.

“Can you light it so it doesn’t burn too fast?” She asks.

He nods, not sure what bearing that has on this but doing it all the same. He doesn’t use much Fire, instead lighting several much smaller ones over the top of it. Pym looks down at the bodies silently for a moment before she opens her mouth.

“We’re sorry you had to wait so long for us to return,” she says, “but we hope this lets you find peace. We give thanks to the light. We are born in the dawn—“ she glances purposefully at him, “to pass—“

“To pass in the twilight,” he says as Squirrel also mutters the words, half delirious.

As they stand there, he watches the blue-green vines creep across Pym’s skin. They’ve grown stronger as she’s used her magic more frequently, but again he’s struck by how many there are. They’ve gone from her neck, to her cheeks and one even crosses the bridge of her nose. When he looks at Squirrel, he sees that his have been summoned out as well.

“The Hidden are with us,” Pym says, sounding slightly dazed.

Lancelot finds he can feel something as well. Something he doesn’t know how to explain. As if some great force is examining him. It’s interested in his Fire. That much he can say. But there’s a recognition in it as well. It feels like being examined by something with great interest. Like being hungry and faced with the prospect of food. The dark green of his Fire begins to lighten, far more like it does when he connects to the Green. When it becomes the uncontrollable thing.

They’ve made a terrible mistake.

There was a reason the Ash Folk were banished. The Hidden want his Fey Fire and instead of coming here for help, they’ve given it to them. He can withstand the brightness and the heat, but Pym and Squirrel are next to him. He has to take the Fire back, but when he raises his hand, the sky darkens. Pym inhales sharply and looks at him.

“They want the Fire!” He calls to her over the crackling.

She hesitates for only a moment and he can’t blame her. He hesitates as well. Is giving them the Fire really a bad thing if they help Squirrel and Pym? But Pym nods to him and goes towards Squirrel to protect him from the light. Lancelot moves towards the Fire, still connected to it like he is to all his Flame. There are several loud popping sounds and before he can reach it, the Fire starts spitting sparks into the air. Sparks that move as though they are caught up in an invisible wind.

They don’t act like regular sparks.

Fey Fire doesn’t spark. It just burns.

The green sparks get caught up and move purposefully, drifting first and then moving faster. Lancelot sees where they’re going and before he can stop it or get in the way, Pym jumps back. The sparks move towards her regardless, with a purpose that would be beautiful if not for the fact that it’s his Fey Fire. He cannot reach her before the Fire takes her and he has no way to stop it without touching it again.

Powerless, he can only watches as it descends on Pym.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s hot.

It’s shocking when she thinks how much she’s burned over the past few days. Her eyes before she cried, Tristain’s Fire, the fever, she didn’t know there were so many ways to burn. She seems to be going through all of them, except maybe the one that involves actual fire. She throws her hands up instinctively, though she knows those won’t help her. Distantly she thinks she can hear Lancelot shout, but it’s hard to hear anything above the roar and crackle of the Fire. It seems to come from all sides, dropped on her by some kind of invisible wind that she knows is not natural.

Then the whispers start.

She’s not afraid of Lancelot’s Fire, but she knows it will kill her. She is afraid of the whispers that she knows will torture her before the Fire gets to her. She thought the Pox would take her, not some combination of Lancelot’s Fire and the Hidden. The voices whisper over each other frantically, like a chorus all vying to be heard above each other. That means that none of them can be understood. She catches fragments of words, vowels and syllables, but nothing like an actual sentence. But she can hear confusion in the whispers and she doesn’t blame them, she’s pretty confused herself. Tentatively she starts to lower her hands.

“Keep your eyes closed,” a very familiar voice says, not shouting but suddenly louder than the whispers, “it helps.”

“Nimue?” She says, ignoring the advice and lowering her hands.

Immediately she closes her eyes again. She’s forgotten how painful it is to look at Lancelot’s Fey Fire when it’s uncontrolled like this. But she can hear Nimue. She’s aware of her the way she’s always been aware of her. She can smell the lingering scents of incense and offerings that always cling to her clothes and hair. She swears she can hear the way Nimue walks, all the small details that she knows better than she knows herself sometimes.

“I didn’t know if you would come back,” Nimue says.

“How do I know this is you?” Pym says, “it could be a trick—“ she cuts herself off, realizing that this is not a good time to voice her own misgivings with the Hidden. Not when they seem to be the thing standing between her and the Fey Fire, “what is this?”

“It’s me and it’s the Hidden,” Nimue says, “we’re the same.”

“But you wanted to be free,” Pym protests. The wind choruses and the voices that are whispering start to moan in pain, “what did I do?” Pym questions, realizing the voices being in pain is not good. No matter how bad they are, “Nimue?”

“You’re right, this wasn’t what I wanted,” Nimue says, “but I changed. This isn’t about what I wanted. That’s passed.”

It hurts to hear her or this version of her say that. The frustration in her voice sounds very much like her friend, though Pym admits she’s not certain. Maybe it’s also not as easy as this being Nimue or not anymore. Maybe she’s become one with this whispering chorus. If anyone could drown them out and rise above them, it would be Nimue. She’s been able to do that for as long as Pym has known her. Even if sometimes doing that isolates her. It’s also the thing that may have saved them all, over and over again.

“Are you alright?” Pym asks hesitantly.

“I am,” Nimue says, though it doesn’t sound like she’s saying she’s alright. More that she’s saying she exists, “I think that’s enough.”

“You sound like Gawain,” Pym says and a familiar laugh echoes.

She half thinks she can hear Gawain’s sigh in the voices. She always knew, somewhere deep down, that she would be the one left behind in their trio. She wishes that she was as brave as Nimue and Gawain in the face of accepting what they’ve become. She can’t even say she’s not afraid of dying. Is that what she’s doing right now? It’s hot, but other than that if this is hell it’s not as unpleasant as Lancelot’s stories made it sound. Though she thinks her heart is pounding too much for this to be hell or for her to be dead.

“Don’t be sad,” Nimue says.

“How can I not be sad?” Pym questions, “you gave up everything for us. I should have let you go on that ship instead of wishing so badly you would stay when I knew it wasn’t what you wanted.”

The wind seems to grasp her hands and she feels a few hot pinpricks that make her gasp. It’s like being burned by cooking oil, but much worse. She doesn’t think the pain even really registers yet. Even if it’s just a few dots on her hands. But the wind grasps them like Nimue used to, right down to how it presses between her fingers and curves like thumbs on her palms. It’s unnerving since she still has her hands pressed to her face.

“This isn’t your fault,” Nimue says.

“You don’t need to reassure me,” Pym scolds, wondering how she’s slotted into Lancelot’s place from last night.

“And you don’t need to feel guilty,” Nimue says, “everything is going to be alright.”

“How do you know that?” Pym demands, “we’re only here because your father said we should come here. I don’t even know how to fix this.”

“Yes you do,” Nimue says, “the answer’s below your feet.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She questions.

“It means exactly what I’m saying. It’s below your feet,” the last notes of her words seem to be pulled by the chorus and Pym feels her heart leap into her throat, “you’ll find it there.”

“Nimue? Nimue!” She drops her hands, reaching for the edges of the wind that start to pull them away, “Nimue!”

The wind blows past her, taking the heat with it. The moment she feels the cool air on her face, she turns to see the sparks cascade up, only to suddenly wink out as Lancelot takes back his Fire. Her feet nearly take her with the sparks but arms band around her middle and she finds herself spun around to face Lancelot. He holds her at an arm’s length, examining her again for any sign of injury. Worry is plain on his features as he looks at her, he’s nearly lost in the panic. Pym steps back to help them both, she’s aware she narrowly avoided being burned. There’s no sense in risking it.

“I’m alright,” she says, “we have to go to the temple.”

He nods and picks Squirrel up. It takes very little time but each second seems impossibly longer. He follows as she goes as quickly as she can down a path she barely remembers. It’s like her feet remember it more than her mind does. Which makes no sense, but she thinks the breeze might be guiding her. They go under the arch and into the main room of the temple. She thinks it’s going to be difficult to locate what they need to do, but it’s not.

It’s laid out on the altar.

Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of Lenore’s body. She doesn’t look dead, or she wouldn’t if not for the wound and the blood on her gown. But the rest of her looks whole. She still has that stillness about her, the one that always terrified Pym. The one Nimue could never fully manage. The Fingers on Lenlore’s throat stand golden against her skin. Pym looks at Lancelot who seems like he might be ill. It’s not the hungry look she used to see when her Fingers came out, but more like someone faced with the prospect of eating rotted meat. It looks like he did when he was in the market.

“We need to put her to rest,” Pym says.

Despite all of that, Lancelot moves forward.

“Take Squirrel,” he says.

“Wait,” Pym grips his arm. She doesn’t know how to ask the question in a polite way but the wounds on Lenore’s body are unmistakably from a sword, “did you kill her? I don’t think you can do this if you—did that.”

“No,” he says, “I didn’t kill her.”

Pym nods. She takes Squirrel from him as Lancelot approaches the body. He folds her hands over her breast and picks her up carefully, holding her so it only looks like she’s asleep. They make their way out and along the rockier path, back to where they burned the other bodies. They’re gone now, the Fey Fire has taken them away. He lays Lenore down.

“Stay here,” he says to her.

Pym nods, unable to turn away from the body. It isn’t long before Lancelot returns with armfuls of wood and sprigs of holly and photinia and cedar. Pym helps arrange the wood around Lenore’s body and add the branches to the wood and the offerings. Lancelot pulls flint and tinder from his pack and Pym can’t exactly argue with his logic. He offers it to her and she takes it, starting the fire. It’s not as awe inspiring as Lancelot’s Flame, but it is how the Sky Folk are usually cremated. It’s how Lenore would want to be, though Pym can’t say how she knows it. She fumbles the book out of her pocket and thumbs through to the back passages, the ones that seem to be less for healing.

“Lenore was the High Summoner, she served her people well,” she says, “she kept us safe. She—“ she realizes she cannot say all the lies the book says about Summoners. Not for her, “she loved her daughter,” she says, “more than anything in this world,” she looks down, “may Airimid’s breath push her down the great river, so her voice may join the chorus of our ancestors. We are born in the dawn—“

“To pass in the twilight,” they say with her.

She hopes, irrationally, that the sparks will happen again. That something will happens so she can ask how to save Squirrel. They didn’t come here to put people at rest, as horrible as that sounds, they came here to save him. They can’t have done this only for him to wind up on the pyre. That’s not something she can accept, it’s not something that she can even fathom. She strains to hear something but the only thing she can hear is the crackling of the fire as it consumes Lenore’s body.

“Can you add your Fey Fire?” She asks. Lancelot hesitates, “please. It’s how they showed up last time. I need to ask them how to do this.”

He nods and touches the fire, turning it the bright green. He steps next to her. He’s willing to do it but she can’t exactly blame him for not wanting to watch her be consumed by Fey Fire sparks. She holds her breath until she realizes what she’s doing. They can only wait as the flames do their work. Lenore’s body has been preserved by the Hidden, it takes longer than the others. But once the Fey Fire is introduced, it starts to go more. This time when the sparks start up again, Lancelot steps closer. But there’s a gust of wind that blows violently between them. Pym knows it’s a sign she should push him away, but she grips his forearm all the same, pulling him closer so that when the sparks shoot around them, they take them both.

“How do we save Squirrel?” She calls.

The whispers jostle with one another and she waits for Nimue’s voice to come to her. But instead they just get hotter and her vision starts to white out. Before she’s fully aware of what’s happening, the world seems to snap off like a candle blowing out.

When she opens her eyes, she’s standing on the shores of Avalon.

In front of her Lenore is standing and looking out at the water. There’s a look of peace on her face, something gentle that Pym isn’t sure she ever saw except when the High Summoner was looking at her daughter. Maybe it’s Nimue’s connection to the Isle that makes her smile. Lenore is already past the beach, but she hasn’t sunken below the waters. She’s just standing on them.

“How do I save him?” She asks.

“Is that your only question?” Lenore replies.

“Yes,” Pym says.

Lenore turns to her and Pym knows she has more questions but those don’t matter at the moment. She realizes that Lenore’s eyes move from her to the beads around her wrist and the book she holds in her hands. She waits for Lenore to look at her. Pym’s never felt comfortable around her, around any of this, but she needs their help. She doesn’t need her other questions answered.   
  
“Everything you need was in the temple,” she says, “if it hasn’t been destroyed,” Pym swallows tightly, “you need to trust in what the Hidden have designed.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Pym says. Lenore looks frustrated, “I was never allowed.”

“You were afraid, like so many of the Sky Folk have become.”

“I was afraid because you told us we had angered the Hidden so no-one would question who Nimue’s father was,” Pym shoots back. Lenore looks surprised at her boldness and Pym wonders why she is sounding so much like Guinevere, “and now Squirrel and I are the only Sky Folk left who can give the Hidden offerings and keep them alive. That won’t happen if you don’t help me.”

“You’re foolish to speak to the Hidden in such a way—“  
  
“I don’t have a choice!”

Lenore smirks.

“You always have a choice,” she says, “you chose to stand by Nimue. You chose to stay on these shores. You chose to come back here. You are the sum of your choices.”

“Then help me.”

“We already have,” she says and her voice echoes, “Now you need to listen to us. In the temple. Neither of you has much time.”

Pym nods, not liking it but getting the sense that shouting at them is going to be wasting more time. Lenore touches her fingers to the beads around Pym’s wrist and she watches them flicker with golden-green light. Lenore takes another step back, onto the water. Pym fights the urge to scream in frustration. She needs answers, not more riddles. She watches as Lenore begins to make her way across to join the others on the Isle.

Hands grasp her shoulders and spin her around. Her breath stops as she stares up into the skull that she knows sometimes makes Morgana’s face. Especially when she’s about to tell someone they are about to die. Her fingers dig into Pym’s shoulders.

“It’s the third storeroom,” she says, her voice echoing oddly. As if she’s speaking in two places at once, “the bottles have been destroyed but it’s on the ground. You know how to find it.”

“But the bottle—“ Pym starts.

“Not you,” Morgana says, “him.”

Pym knows what she’s saying. Who she’s talking about. She looks over at the Isle and wonders how it seems like it’s closer. As if it’s waiting for her. She thinks she might be able to see her mother there embracing her father, both turning to look at her. She sees others she recognizes and some she doesn’t. Many she doesn’t. All the Fey who have been killed over the Paladin’s war. Her eyes look across so many faces until she finds one she wasn’t even sure she was looking for. One she doesn’t know and yet knows very well. If only because of the familiar markings underneath her eyes.

“Not yet!” Morgana echoes, spinning her around, “Go!”

She shoves Pym so hard that she falls. Or maybe she fell before and she doesn’t remember. But when she opens her eyes, Lancelot is hunched over Squirrel. Morgana was right, there is no time. He’s breathing but she can see the blue tinge around his lips. Lancelot’s cut the brace off him in an effort to help him breathe and it doesn’t seem to be working. She’s avoided going into the temple or been forbidden for most of her life but now for the second time, she scrambles to her feet.

“Come on, we have to go to the temple. I need your help. Bring him,” she says.

Lancelot whips towards her, truly stunned and Pym doesn’t have time to think about why he’s looking at her like that.

“Lancelot, come on!” She says.

Lancelot grabs Squirrel and together they scramble back into the temple.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: illness

He lays Squirrel down on the altar and follows Pym.

She leads him into the store room and refocuses just on the task. He can do the task, pushing all emotion to the side. It’s not something he has to do as often, but it’s an ingrained skill. Something that’s almost instinctive. He recognizes the Paladin’s handiwork here, everything is smashed or destroyed. Not even a few precious bottles remain. He looks as she drops down and sifts through the shards of the jars, looking at strange symbols he doesn’t recognize. Her hand hesitates over a piece of glass and then grabs another.

“This,” she says, “I need you to get everything that smells like this,” she scrambles to her feet, “I’m going to check on Squirrel.”

He grabs a gourd and breathes in. There’s something Fey clinging to the glass. Something that makes it easier to pick out the mix where it’s heaped among others. He’s able to scoop several handfuls into the bowl. He could take more but he can tell it’s been mixed more with some other smashed jar. He doesn’t know what the other things are but he’s not going to risk it. He hurries back to see Pym has Squirrel propped up and the rasping sound the boy makes is gut wrenching.

“We have to boil it,” she says.

She doesn’t lower Squirrel down as he races back for water and returns, setting the stuff to boil. The smell that plumes up is revolting, but he lets Pym’s belief carry him through with the task. Even though, given what he’s just seen on the hilltop he’s not sure what to believe about what the Hidden want. Pym motions him over and he props Squirrel up as she stirs it. She returns with the potion and hands it to him.

“He has to drink it,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, “there’s no time.”

Lancelot looks over at the boy and has seen enough death to know that she’s right. He tilts Squirrel’s head and pours the potion directly down his throat, not sure he has it in him to swallow. He uses two fingers to massage his throat, making sure that as much of it goes down as possible. Nothing happens instantly, but Squirrel keeps breathing. At the moment, that’s the only thing that matters. Pym stares at Squirrel.

“You as well,” he says.

“Oh, right,” Pym agrees, spooning out the mixture. She pinches her nose and tips it down her throat, clapping her hand over her mouth to keep from being sick, “that’s horrible.”

“Do you feel anything?”

She shakes her head and Lancelot has to fight the urge to scream. Why doesn’t it work quicker? Did the Hidden appearing so many times slow them down? Pym presses her hands to the altar and Lancelot keeps one arm around Squirrel and uses the other to steady her. The panic starts again, the same panic that gripped him when she collapsed and he heard Squirrel wheeze. He knew that keeping Squirrel alive was more important, but diving for him meant leaving Pym in the green sparks. And that is something that felt as though he was leaving something vital behind. Getting the boy out of the brace bought them more time but seeing Pym laying there was not something he was prepared to face.

“I’m alright,” she gets out, gripping his wrist.

She doubles over and vomits black onto the stones. Horror would flood through him, if he didn’t smell that the potion had changed. Like it’s pulling the sickness out of her body. When she’s done being sick for the second time today, she stays doubled over sucking in air. But when she looks up at him, there’s something hopeful in her eyes. He presses his hand to her forehead. She still has a fever, but her scent smells more like her.

“I think it worked,” she says.

Her eyes immediately go to Squirrel, nothing’s come up from him. She gets more of the potion and together they tip it down his throat. It’s progressed farther in him, maybe more of it will help. But though it slides down his throat, his face remains slack. The blue still tints his lips and his breathing is anything but steady. The notion that they are too late makes it difficult to breathe. Pym looks at him. Instead of his own desperation she looks determined and almost angry.

“Hold him steady,” she says, “I’m going to make him be sick.”

“Wait a moment,” he says, “let it work.”

She nods as he shifts his grip on Squirrel. He’s seen enough poisons work to know that choking on your own vomit is not a pleasant way to die and very much a real threat in this case. Then he nods at Pym. She carefully tilts Squirrel’s head and sticks her fingers down his throat. Lancelot works in tandem as she pulls them away and Squirrel is promptly sick all over the ground. Any other time the sight of the black that spills from him would be horrifying, but there’s relief instead. Especially when Squirrel coughs and opens his eyes.

“Yuck,” he mumbles. He looks up at Pym, “why are your Fingers out?”

“I’m worried about you,” she says, “do you know where we are?”

Squirrel looks around.

“We’re in the temple,” he says and then looks at the puddle of black, “it’s a good thing everyone’s dead or we’d be in a lot of trouble.”

It’s the most lucid he’s sounded in days and when Pym laughs in relief, Lancelot is glad he’s sitting down. Squirrel looks over at him, seemingly surprised that he’s there and then leans against his shoulder. Like he knows that he’s safe. He can feel the heat coming off of Squirrel’s skin. He knows that neither of them are truly safe from this, but they have been helped. They are not as close to death as they were. Squirrel looks around at the temple as Lancelot holds him steady, seemingly surprised that they’ve gotten here.

“Can we go back home?” Squirrel asks Pym and Lancelot feels his heart leap into his throat.

“We are home,” he says.

“I don’t live in a temple,” Squirrel shoots back, which only mildly helps Lancelot’s pounding heart, “I want to go back to my real house.”

He looks up at Pym who swallows tightly. She doesn’t seem to know what to say and Lancelot cannot blame her for that. Squirrel looks between them. Lancelot wants to keep him as still as possible, incase whatever just occurred didn’t work. But he can feel Squirrel already trying to move. Will it be easier to take advantage of this and keep him still in his home? He meets Pym’s eyes and she looks at him helplessly. She’s not sure either.

“I know the way,” she says.

“I do too, it’s my home,” Squirrel protests.

“You are going to fall asleep on our way there,” Lancelot says.

“Am not.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, wondering briefly why he was so desperate for Squirrel talking back. Squirrel grumbles under his breath and Lancelot looks at Pym.

“It’s not far,” she says quietly.

“Let’s go,” Squirrel says, wiggling forward and moving to get off the table.

Lancelot’s hand streaks out as Pym dives forward. Between the pair of them they’re able to narrowly keep Squirrel from adding a broken nose to the list of ailments. Lancelot guides the boy back to the table. At least Squirrel enthusiastically going face first into something is a familiar trait, even if it’s also worrying given everything they’ve done to train his balance. It’s the sickness. Lancelot knows his recovery is going to be a long one, but they can manage that. As long as he is around to recover, that is the only thing that matters.

“Stay here,” Lancelot says and brings Pym off to the side, ignoring Squirrel’s huff of indignation.

She presses her fingers to her lips, like she might still be sick and he takes her hand in his. Small starburst scars dot the skin below her fingertips. It must have happened the first time that the Fire and the Hidden took her. She doesn’t seem surprised or bothered at the sight of him but his stomach knots at the realization that she’s once again been burned because of him.

“Do they hurt?” He asks.

“I think I’m so relieved you could slap me and it wouldn’t hurt.”

He understands that but it doesn’t make him feel better. Not only in that she’s been burned, but this entire time she’s been keeping them focused on Squirrel. Pushing her own fear aside. Now she looks almost weak with some combination of fever and relief and he wonders if he did enough to keep her going. If her fears were listened to, regardless of her difficulty in saying them. They’re here now and there’s nothing to be done, but he realizes the journey was harder on her than he thought.

“Should we take him from the temple,” he asks.

“I don’t think it matters if we’re here or not,” she’s says, “it might be easier to get him to lay still there.”

“I was thinking the same,” he says, “is it far?”

“No,” she says, “there’s a smoother path we can take on the horses.”  
  
“Can we avoid the village?”

She nods.

“Is the path on the outskirts?”

“Yes?” She says.

He loathes asking any discomfort of her but he knows that if this path is on the outskirts of the village, there is a chance that they will find something that Squirrel cannot see.

“I need the cloak back to hide Squirrel’s eyes,” he says. She goes for the fastening and stops, “Fey men usually defend their homes.”

Realization flares in her eyes and she slides her arms through the straps and hands it to him. He wishes that he could reassure her he didn’t do it, but the truth is he doesn’t know. Even if he sees the face, he can’t be sure. He’s killed many Fey outside their homes. He can say he didn’t the ones on the crucifixes only because that is the Priests work. And that was something he could never become. Pym tries to smile at him but it’s a hard thing. He can’t blame her for that.

“Let’s go,” he says and comes back. Squirrel is unsteady. Some combination of that and something else keeps him sitting there, looking around but also seeming bored with the sacred place. As only a child can be, “we’re going to your home.”

“Great,” Squirrel says and goes to jump off again. Lancelot catches him this time, though his landing is better, “I can walk.”

“We’re riding.”

“I can ride then.”

“We’re riding together,” Lancelot says.

“What about Pym?”

“I’m fine,” Pym says, “come on. You need to rest.”

Squirrel opens his mouth and Lancelot lays a hand on his shoulder, giving him a warning look. Pym also needs to rest and the boy’s sass is not going to help that. Squirrel looks slightly embarrassed and nods, looking down at his feet. He lets Lancelot help him over to Goliath. Lancelot goes over to Pym and cups his hands.

“I’ll be able to get up again shortly,” she says.

“I don’t mind,” he says.

She gives him a long, quiet look before nodding and putting her foot in his hands. She braces against his shoulder and swings herself into the saddle. He turns quickly and steadies her as she sways slightly. She, too, has a long recovery ahead of her. But if this has worked then she’ll be able to recover. Lancelot waits for her to open her eyes and nod at him before he walks back over to Squirrel and swings himself up behind the boy. He’s careful to make sure the cloak blocks out his periphery vision.

“You should be riding with her,” Squirrel says.

“Quiet,” Lancelot orders.

Pym leads them down a path. Lancelot pushes any emotion to the side and opens his nose. He keeps Goliath firmly behind the horse. As they ride, he hears Pym inhale sharply but she doesn’t stop. He blocks the bodies out but they don’t smell like Squirrel. Or like any of them. He does start to smell Squirrel and his kin as they approach a house. Pym abruptly stops the horse.

“I’m going to go look,” she says.

“No,” Lancelot replies and she turns, looking at him. Even as he says that she lowers herself down and shoves the reins at him, “Pym—“

“Stay here with Squirrel,” she says, “I’ll be fine.”

Before he can say anything she moves forward. Squirrel lets out a low whistle that ends in a hacking cough. Lancelot steadies him again and pulls him back, letting the warmth and the cloak keep him safe and tucked away. He tracks Pym by scent. After a moment, a fresh scent joins it. One that he recognizes. One that could have belonged to Squirrel if they had waited much longer. He closes his eyes and tunes into the scent and sound. He should have gone with her. He listens to her drag something heavy before he smells her coming back. He opens her eyes to see her flushed and sweaty despite the cold but doing her best to hide it.

“All clear,” she lies, “lets go.”

She leads the horse forward and he follows on Goliath, watching her back like a hawk. He wants to take his cloak off and give it back to her but it’s impossible without raising Squirrel’s suspicions. The house is charred and a good chunk of the roof is missing. He’s careful to angle Goliath from the deep tracks in the snow that are tinged red. Pym looks over and hurries there, quickly sweeping the snow aside. Their eyes meet and she nods.

“We’re home,” he says.

  
Squirrel pops his head out, looking relieved to see something of his house still standing. Lancelot dismounts and helps Squirrel down. Squirrel hurries ahead and Lancelot quickly goes over to Pym. He hesitates only slightly before touching her shoulder. She immediately steps closer to him and something tight unravels in his chest that she’ll let him touch her at all. He guides her into the house.

The elements have affected a portion of it, but a lot of it still stands tall. The beds pushed to the side are dry. Everything look preserved. Shockingly well. It’s a testament to Squirrel’s father’s fighting skills. He was a lot of trouble if they didn’t destroy it like the other houses.

“Can you light the fire?” Squirrel asks him and Lancelot nods, walking over to the hearth and putting fire there. Even with the hole in the roof it helps warm the place.

While that happens he tacks up the tent, helping to patch the hole in the roof and give the illusion that nothing has happened here. That Squirrel’s father isn’t laying outside, possibly dead from his blade. He makes sure they are both safe and by the Fire before he walks out, not even bothering to give an excuse. He ignores the horses and comes around to the back where Pym has dragged the body.

He’s a big man, though is blades have been taken there’s still the holders and an empty quiver. He died fighting. That doesn’t surprise Lancelot somehow. Though the body is well into it’s decomposition, he examines the marks. They are short and square, deeper at one end than the other. The one that split his skull and probably killed him shows the marks of a stuck hatchet.

Lancelot knows he didn’t use a hatchet when he brought them into the village.

Relief drops him to his knees even though he has no right to feel such things. He would be alive if not for Lancelot leading the Paladins here. He still had such a hand in this. This and every death that has happened. But it wasn’t his hand that took Squirrel’s family from him. He nearly feels weak with the relief of it. There’s the sound of someone coming but he recognizes Pym’s scent as she nearly careens into him.

“Are you alright?” She questions, turning his face atowards her. She cringes from the sight of the body, “did—“

“No,” he cuts in, “I hate using a hatchet,” he swallows back the urge to be sick.

Pym looks weak with relief herself. He probably killed other family members of theirs, he isn’t innocent in this. But somehow his blade did not take the people that they loved most. There’s no logic to it, it’s just foolish luck. Luck or something else. Something he doesn’t dare hope to believe in. Pym grips his arm.

“We have to go back before Squirrel comes looking for us,” she says, “he needs to rest, we can take care of his body later.”

Lancelot nods and gets to his feet. There’s no point in changing any of this but he still moves forward, putting the man’s arms over his breast. Pym smiles gently at the gesture, looking over her shoulder to make sure Squirrel has stayed inside. Lancelot knows it’s chancing their luck and they need it for other things.

So he stands up and follows her back into the house.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: illness

She’s dreamed of home so many times, it’s strange to open her eyes in a familiar place.

It’s not her home, but it’s more familiar than any place she’s woken up lately. She could almost pretend that it is. She’s also spent enough time in Squirrel’s house for it to have it’s own familiarity. The green Fire reminds her that she’s not home. She realizes that she didn’t even remember falling asleep, but she’s asleep in front of the Fire in her bedroll. She sits up and presses her hand to her forehead, wishing the throbbing would stop. She doesn’t fully remember getting here.

“You’re still feverish,” Lancelot says, appearing besides her. He hands her a waterskin and she drinks greedily, “do you feel nauseous?”

“No,” she realizes, but when she wipes her hand over her forehead she realizes she is sweaty and chilly at the same time. But that at least feels familiar, if not awful, “where’s Squirrel?”

“In his bed,” Lancelot says, “his fever is worse,” she moves and he steadies her, “slowly.”

“Have you healed?” She asks as he helps her up. He says nothing. Of course he hasn’t, “go do that, I’ll stay with Squirrel,” he hesitates, “Lancelot, we need you well.”

He nods finally and guides her over to the bed. She sits there and tries to look like she has everything together, if only to get him out the door quicker. He needs to heal. They need his strength, even more than they already do. He put Squirrel on his bedroll in his bed. Pym remembers Squirrel’s mother making the quilt he lays under. It’s incredible that the quilt is mostly whole.

Squirrel is pale and flushed and shivering with the fever. She imagines that his symptoms are going to be worse. His illness progressed worse. She never saw anyone go into the temple or be healed and instantly be well. They can aide the body, but the body needs to do it’s part. Squirrel is so strong, she has to remind herself of that again. Though she knows it deep in her bones. He’s strong and he will be alright. His spirit is so much bigger than the body that houses it. Lancelot has scooped snow into a pail and let it melt, giving them cold water to soak fabric in and put on the boy’s forehead. When Pym changes the cloth, he stirs slightly but not as much as she would hope for how cold the water is.

Outside she hears a crack as Lancelot connects to a tree and then a soft thump. It’s winter. She supposes that it makes sense snow would be more of an issue. However when he comes back inside, he’s not so much covered in water as he sopping wet. Because of course the Fey Fire would melt snow. He meets her gaze and she fights back a smile as how disgruntled he looks. It’s probably the first time he’s let himself feel that. He looks at Squirrel before heading over to the Fire and hanging up his cloak. She gets to her feet and goes over to the Fire where he’s sitting.

  
“Squirrel’s alright,” she says, “his fever’s high.”

“You both have fevers,” he says.

“His is higher,” she says.

He says nothing, it’s a simple fact but it doesn’t change the look on his face. He’s worried about both of them. Which she’s been aware of, but now that she’s not as foggy she can see just how worried. She wishes she didn’t understand it quite so well after learning he had been taken. That powerless feeling when you couldn’t do anything except try to get help, even though all you want to do is singlehandedly save someone. She knows that feeling. It’s not one she would wish on another person.

She thinks that even if they had come here healthy this trip wouldn’t be easy.

It was jarring to see the remnants of destruction in the village and on the island. But that destruction was old, it let her lie to herself. This is fresh. It’s fresh and the wound is deeper. Maybe that makes her awful but seeing it in her village, knowing the skeletons and the corpses, it makes it worse. The guilt and anguish on him don’t bring back the dead, they don’t change what his hand has done. She knows that she’s made her peace with his deeds, accepted that she wants to be around him and be his friend. Even with what he’s done.

It’s confusing to have it be hard to be around him in this place and also to be so grateful that he’s there.

He looks anguished but also his eyes keep darting around, like he’s looking for something. There’s no-one in here, he would smell them if there was anyone. She follows his gaze but it doesn’t settle on anything in particular, it drags over everything before going back to Squirrel. Something Lancelot said echoes in her head and she looks at her hands before speaking to him.

“Have you ever been inside a Fey home?” She asks tentatively. He looks at her in surprise, “you keep looking around.”

“I’ve been inside,” he says, “but only to drag people out.”

He looks over at her and Pym doesn’t know what he expects to see. She has no issue conjuring the image of him standing in a home like this, sniffing out someone who thought they were safe. Who had no idea their fear made their scent sharper. She can even easily imagine the fear they must have felt when the impassive, unstoppable weeping monk dragged them from those places and slaughtered them. She knows because she’s felt that fear or something very close to it, even though the first times when she was afraid of him and he appeared suddenly, she knew he wouldn’t kill her. The look he has is like the look he wore in the temple when she asked if he killed Lenore.

“You know I only asked if you killed Lenore because we needed help from the Hidden, right?” She says tentatively, “if you had or hadn’t—it wouldn’t have changed how I feel about you.”

“We’re in your village, a village I burned down,” he says, “how can that not change things between us?”

“Because I know what you did here,” Pym says, “I’ve known since before I knew you,” she adds, not sure how to explain this in a way he’ll understand, “it’s always been a part of you—I’ve never known you as someone other than the one who did this,” he nods, looking down, “and I still decided to be your friend. I still want to be your friend. That hasn’t changed.”

He looks like he doesn’t believe her and Pym can’t blame him. She can scarcely believe it herself sometimes, though after these months she can honesty say he knows her better than most people. They raced here without a second thought, it never occurred to her that in addition to being afraid of losing them to a sickness he would also be scared of losing them to his past. That kind of emotional pain would be crippling to anyone but to someone like Lancelot, she can’t even imagine how it must have felt.

“You don’t believe me,” she says.

“I find it hard to believe,” he corrects.

“I can tell, you sound raspy,” she adds. He raises an eyebrow, “your voice gets raspy when you get upset sometimes,” she says, “you sound more like when we first met,” he seems surprised and she finds it hard not to smile, “did you not know?” He shakes his head, “well you do sometimes. Not often but lately—“

“Given the circumstances,” he points out.

“I know,” she says, looking down, “really I’m not sorry for going to Squirrel but I am sorry for worrying you. I was upset when you sacrificed yourself for everyone, even though I know why you did it.”

He’s quiet for a moment and Pym doesn’t know what’s going through his head. He clears his throat before speaking and she can’t fight the smile at him trying to hide his tell. She turns her head and tries to clamp down on it though as he holds his hand out.

“Let me see your hands.”

She sighs and puts them in his. They hurt but it’s not unbearable, or maybe the pain is just not something she’s thinking about between her fever and Squirrel still being sick and a thousand other things that are in her head. It’s more comparable to being splashed by cooking oil than anything else. It strikes her as odd that she’s been touched by all these magical fires, and the thing that her mind still goes to is cooking. Lancelot runs his thumbs over the back of her hands where her marks are and the Fire catches the faint marks that dot his hands.

“What?” She prods gently.

“I shouldn’t have lit the pyre,” he says. When he goes to drop her hands she grips his.

“Lancelot, it’s really alright. Getting them laid to rest was more important. I’m not the first Summoner to get burned by the sparks when the Hidden chose me.” 

He doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer but he doesn’t move to pull his hands away either.

“So you’ve accepted your role?” He asks.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” she says, “I mean, neither of us are happy about it,” he opens his mouth, “don’t insult them until we’re better or we’ve left this place,” she’s says quickly, “we’re lucky they helped at all and might help in the future.”

She can’t blame him for looking less than thrilled, she isn’t very pleased herself. It’s still strange and terrifying. She still thinks they would all be better off with someone who has the natural connection she’s never truly embraced. But like she told Arthur when he first came looking for a healer for Lancelot, she’s better than nothing. If only just a little.

“I was going to say that they are lucky to have you,” Lancelot says.

Despite having a fever, she still feels herself blush at the compliment. The sound of Squirrel whimpering kills the soft feeling and they both hurry over to where he’s laying. Maybe it’s their presence, maybe it’s being in his own bed, but he stills again faster than Pym’s seen him recover from a nightmare. Something relaxes when he stills back into a fevered sleep, though she knows that’s not a good thing.

Pym tells herself this is the hardest part, the waiting to see if this worked or not. Before they had the hope that something could help. Now it’s a question of if that help was enough. If Squirrel can fight it off. His body is that of a child. There is only so much it can stand. Lancelot changes the cloth on his brow and clenches his fist. The helplessness doesn’t suit him.

“What did the Paladins do for the sick?” She asks.

“Pray,” he says.

Pym expected as much. They both know Lancelot hasn’t been able to since he was taken. She sees glimpses of his prayer beads but they aren’t ever in his hands. Not like she’s seen him hold them before. Praying has always been an intensely private thing for him and she wishes that there was more room. Or that it wasn’t snowing so she would have somewhere to give him what he needs.

“Maybe you should try that,”. She says.

He looks surprised at the suggestion.

“The Hidden—“

“The Hidden are going to have to learn to accept some compromises,” she says, “and I think that if they appeared with your Fey Fire, they know your faith,” he clenches his jaw, “you did horrible things here in the name of your religion, but everything you’ve told me makes it sound like forgiveness and atonement is a big part of it. You came back here when you didn’t have to, you helped some find peace,” she shrugs, “I think that’s more in line with what you believe than what you did before.”

He seems stunned by her words. Pym doubts she’s the person to speak on his faith but she knows how it can get when you think one thing and another is actually the case. Things are not as different between their beliefs as the Church tells them. But then again the Hidden and the Church have more in common than either probably wants to consider. She sees Lancelot’s fingers soften and uncurl, moving to the beads hidden on him. Pym smiles faintly. She doesn’t know if he can pray, but she knows it can’t hurt to try. His actions when he had faith saved Squirrel, maybe they can help now. She pushes herself up and his hand catches hers. She looks at him.

“I was just going to give you some privacy,” she says.

“Stay?” He phrases it as a question and she hesitates only a moment before nodding and sitting back down.

Lancelot leaves her hand in her lap and takes the beads, lowering his head. Pym closes her eyes to give him the moment.

Then he starts to pray.

It turns out Lancelot has another tone she’s not heard before. She’s never heard him pray, not even when he did it aloud to control his Fire. It’s almost musical, but he isn’t signing. She doesn’t know the language he uses but that doesn’t seem to matter as he speaks, moving the beads between his fingers. When Bedivere instructed her in how they were used, the way he prayed was similar. But it’s not like this. Or maybe she just likes listening to Lancelot’s voice more. She feels a shiver work up her spine and clenches her fingers in her lap to avoid moving. She almost doesn’t want to breathe in case it distracts him. She looks at his face and he looks more at peace than most places she’s seen him, like this is somewhere he belongs. Somewhere he takes comfort in.

He looks at her and Squirrel that way too, sometimes.

She likes when he does it.

The realization hits her that she likes when he looks at her like that, she likes it when he touches her hand. She likes being around him. Which she knew already, but standing in the ruins she realizes that it goes almost beyond a want. It’s like a need. Pym has always been careful about needing people. She’s spent her life with Nimue and with people who so many need. She doesn’t want to be anyone’s burden. With Lancelot, needing him doesn’t feel that way. Because she has no doubt he needs her just as badly. It feels like a weight has been lifted and also is settling over her, all at the same time. It feels balancing. It’s a weight she doesn’t mind even if she’s not sure what it means.

“Lancelot?” She looks over to see Squirrel looking up at them.

He’s just been asleep but the fact that he looks marginally better, even in the green light, makes her glad she’s sitting down. Squirrel looks at her as well.

“You don’t have to cry, I was just sleeping,” he mumbles.

She realizes her eyes have tears in them, though she can’t remember when they started. She feels better than she has in a while—she feels like she did with him at the market. Like the things that are sad can be sweet as well, as long as he’s there. As long as he’s there things will be okay, even if they aren’t alright. After Lancelot lays a new cloth on Squirrel’s forehead, which he grumbles about, she reaches for his hand.

“Go back to sleep,” Lancelot says

For once, Squirrel doesn’t question him and closes his eyes, drifting off knowing he’s safe and home.


	17. Chapter 17

Squirrel finds the body in the morning.

Lancelot doesn’t even realize he’s well enough to leave the bed. He barely is. But neither of them thought he would manage to get out without them realizing. A part of him is glad that Squirrel is on his way to recovering. The rest of him wishes that it would have taken a bit longer. He can remember the sound of his parent’s screaming, but not their remains. Seeing a parent like that, especially one that didn’t try to kill you, is something no-one should have to witness. But by the time he finds Squirrel it’s too late. He’s found his body and is staring at it in shock.

“Squirrel—Percival!” Lancelot spins the boy around, turning his back to the body, “focus on me.”

Squirrel stares at him, his eyes owl like. It’s unspeakably cruel that he saw that after everything. Squirrel looks past him and Lancelot smells Pym moments before she arrives. It doesn’t take much to see what’s happened and Squirrel manages to blink, looking between the two of them. Pym rushes over as his eyes fill up and he pushes past, running to her and burning his face in her stomach. Pym looks her arms around him as Squirrel cries. Her eyes find his and she gives him a sympathetic look he has to turn from. It wasn’t his hand that cut him down, but he had a hand in this all the same. He neither needs nor wants sympathy. He deserves so much worse.

For the first time in weeks, that bone deep itch goes across his old scars.

Lancelot clamps down on it, recognizing it for what it is. It’s punishment and only for himself. God does not care about the blood or the tearing of his flesh. His soul is already forfeit so that doesn’t matter either. Prayer and flogging have always gone hand in hand. Finding his faith, even in a small way, brings up the physical need. It’s like holding the beads and holding the flog are the same muscle, though he knows that isn’t true. He has to remind himself and he will have to continue to remind himself of that for as long as it takes.

“No!” He turns at the angry cry from Squirrel. He walks back over. The boy is upset but shouting at Pym is not alright, not when he is the person responsible for his father not being here, “I don’t want to burn him, he didn’t want to be burned. He wanted to be part of the woods.”

Pym falters for a moment before nodding.

“We can bury him,” she promises. Lancelot keeps his mouth closed until Squirrel looks at him.

“Can you dig? I can help.”

He nods and Squirrel looks around. Lancelot wants to tell him not to but he finds a shovel easily. The boy goes for it and Lancelot beats him to it, picking up the tool. He understands Squirrel wants to help but digging a grave for a body that size isn’t going to be easy. He needs to recover. This place has seen enough death. Pym walks with them as Squirrel leads them to a pair of younger trees nearby. He points to the ground between them.

“There,” he says.

Lancelot nods as Pym touches Squirrel’s shoulder.

“Let’s go get the quilt, you can help me sew him into it.”

Squirrel nods and follows her as Lancelot pushes the shovel into the earth. The ground is half frozen and it rests him every step of the way. Lancelot relishes in it. His back still itches but the pull of his muscles is almost enough to distract him. His throat tightens and he pulls off his shirt, casting it aside. But it doesn’t help quite as much as he thought it would with the knot in his throat. The cold does. It feels nice, even though the plume of his breath makes it seem like it shouldn’t.

He falls into a rhythm as he digs and the earth begins to change. Though he’s careful not to touch the roots, the dirt that lands on his skin cases it to change all the same. He’s left a gaping, horrible wound in this land. But the Green doesn’t seem to care as his skin changes to mimic the dirt and the leaves and bits of everything that mix together. The ground becomes softer as he digs and his skin molts green where it comes in to contact. He should put his layers back on, but instead he lets it happen. There’s no wound for it to heal but he doesn’t feel afraid as he does it.

It’s strange to think how afraid he was when he rode in.

Not afraid in any way that compares to the terror the Fey felt when he arrived to burn their homes down. That fear doesn’t compare. Their fear was justified. His fear was cowardice. He was a coward in so many ways. Now, whether he deserves it or not, he doesn’t feel afraid as he digs the grave. He feels his back and shoulders pull as the hole becomes deeper and the earth rockier. In a bit more, water comes in. Not a lot, but a bit. Enough for him to know he’s dug enough. He puts the shovel up and uses it to brace his hands so he can push himself up.

Pym and Squirrel have put the body on a quilt. There are branches on it as well, their foliage vaguely resembling Squirrel’s Fingers when they come out. There are other things too. A child’s toy, a hair ribbon, a strand of beads and a blade. They both look up at him as he comes over, biting back the urge to ask why they would move the body instead of waiting for him. He knows the answer. He watches as Squirrel makes sure he’s seen the body before taking the other side. He and Pym fold the quilt over the body. Lancelot can see the care that’s gone into it, though he doesn’t understand what the stitches mean.

Pym and Squirrel both have needles and thread. The stitches aren’t pretty but Lancelot imagines they aren’t supposed to be. Squirrel sniffles several times as they close the quilt around the body, but he keeps sewing. When they reach his father’s face, Pym pauses and let’s Squirrel look before he carefully sews it up. By that point he’s tearful again and his hands are shaking, but he knots the threads all the same before handing the needle to Pym. She takes them both and slips them into the fabric as well.

“The grave is ready, can I bring him there?” Lancelot asks.

Squirrel nods his permission and Lancelot takes the ends. He doesn’t risk lifting the body. Squirrel doesn’t need to see him flopping around and he doesn’t want to risk anything falling out or him starting to bleed. He drags the quilt and it’s contents as carefully as he can over to the hole. Squirrel and Pym follow. Lancelot puts the body on the side of the grave and climbs in. Without a word, Pym comes forward and helps guide the body into it’s final resting place. She cleverly grabs his discarded shirt and puts it on the ground so he can push himself up without risking the Fire. He pulls the garment on and turns to move away to give Squirrel privacy.

  
“Where are you going?”Squirrel asks.

“He’s giving you a moment to say goodbye,” Pym says, “Lancelot!”

He turns at the call of his name. Pym nods at Squirrel and he looks to see him looking at him intently. He doesn’t need to wonder at the request and though each step hurts, he returns to where they are standing. Squirrel looks down at the body laying there quietly.

“Thank you for digging it,” he says. Lancelot nods.

“What was his name?”

“Gullayad,” Squirrel says, “he taught Gawain how to hunt.”

The connection to Gawain catches him off guard. He’s connected to the man that inhabited this body in more ways than either of them ever would have thought. Certainly than either of them could have known when their paths first crossed before his death. If the standing house hadn’t told him that Gullayad was a brave and stubborn fighter, then knowing he taught Squirrel and Gawain would have. He doesn’t know if there is anything that he can say, but he’s unable to just leave the silence punctured by Squirrel’s sniffs.

“He fought bravely,” he says. Squirrel looks up at him, “the Paladins don’t leave houses this whole unless someone has made it too much trouble,” he looks back at the house, which looks whole from this angle, “he fought well,” he says to Squirrel.

“He taught me too,” Squirrel says quietly.

Lancelot nods as Squirrel steps closer to him. He sees Pym exhale in relief and feels it echo in him, thought it also has the sickening feeling of guilt. But he doubts that will ever leave. But he is not a coward like before, he doesn’t run from it. Doesn’t try to push it away. He faces it, he bears the burden of it. He settles a hand on his shoulder as they look at the body laying in the grave silently.

“Born in the dawn,” Squirrel says.

“To pass in the twilight,”he and Pym echo.

“I can’t fill it in,” Squirrel says.

“No,” Lancelot agrees, “but you can start it.”

Squirrel nods and takes the shovel, scooping a little dirt over the body. He keeps going until there’s a light dusting. It’s not many scoops, but he’s still recovering and the effort leaves him slightly out of breath. Lancelot takes the shovel from him as Squirrel looks up at him.

“You did well,” he says, “I’ll finish.”

Squirrel nods. Pym comes forward and takes him back in the house as Lancelot begins to cover the body with dirt. The tightness returns to his throat and he strips his shirt off again, hoping that it will help. Again, it does not. But the discomfort isn’t something that stops him as he continues to add dirt to the grave. The feel of his muscles burning as he fills it doesn’t help like it usually does. The burning remains in his throat. Even when he wipes the dirt from his skin, which should stop it. There’s nothing burning and yet everything feels as though it is. His throat, his eyes, his lungs.

He keeps filling the grave.

The man who taught Squirrel and Gawain and countless other such bravery deserves better than the one responsible for his death. His family’s death. Just as Squirrel deserves better as a teacher than the one who helped take so much. If not for him, he could still have his father. Still be learning from him. The man died like Gawain, he died bravely in the face of a foe that Lancelot knows he succumbed to. These men fought nobly for their kind. They weren’t like the Ash Folk whose attempts at killing him filled his heart with hatred.

They did deserve the revenge he’s spent a lifetime trying to exact on the dead.

That’s what this has been, he’s been a child fighting shadows with his bare hands when the solution was to light a candle. He’s been a fool a thousand times over and men like Gullayad and boys like Squirrel have paid the price. He doesn’t understand how it is he’s still here, how he is to carry this burden. It feels as though his lungs are being twisted and wrung out. Perhaps he didn’t heal properly. The sounds that come from his lips aren’t breaths, they are the noises Squirrel was making when he nearly died. It’s like being underwater, that’s certainly how his eyes feel. Like they did when the Church decided he was nothing but a tool and a misshapen one at that. Something that needed to be melted. It feels like there’s something red hot sliding past the tightness in his throat. Some burning he doesn’t understand.

“Lancelot!”

He takes a step back, if he’s burning it must be something he doesn’t understand. Something that he doesn’t remember. Or didn’t have time to learn before the Ash Folk also deemed him a useless thing to be left to bleed out on the rocks. Like all the children. Or most of them. Some parents didn’t do that, they protected their children and were slaughtered. Like the ones that he’s slaughtered. His steps are unsteady, he knows he has to trust Pym is smart enough to run.

But when he tries to focus, she’s not gone.

She’s in front of him.

He shakes his head because it’s impossible to speak and she cups his cheeks in her hands, her thumbs touching his marks. Before he realizes what’s happening she’s against him, pulling him closer. Her arms wrap around his shoulders. He realizes that for some reason, he cannot smell her. His nose feels stuffed with something that makes it hard to smell. When he tries, there’s nothing and what comes on the exhale sounds more like a wounded animal than a man.

He doesn’t know how they wind up on the dirt next to the grave, or how he winds up pressed into her. No more than he knows how the heaving sobs start. But once they’ve begun, he cannot stop them. He cannot control them. Pym holds him close and it feels like the only thing that is keeping him grounded, even if he cannot smell her scent like he usually can. He can do nothing but weep. And Pym just holds him tightly, keeping him as close as she can.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, she never tries to stop him or if she does, it doesn’t work. Eventually the heaving sobs lessen, though it’s longer before they become anything controllable. His head aches and his nose is so stuffed, the situation is almost dangerous. He feels robbed of his senses. Even though he’s half on Pym’s lap and she’s curled over him, protecting him in a way that he can’t remember ever feeling. All of this is new. Maybe the crying and the guilt was inevitable, but not being alone wasn’t. Not like this. He feels unsteady and weak in a way that isn’t something he can heal from, even as she wipes the tears. It’s futile, they both know it. But she does it anyway.

“I’m sorry,” He croaks out, though the apology seems so insufficient it makes his head spin.

“I know,” she says, “you’re not alone, Lancelot. We’re here. We’re with you.”

He nods, knowing she’s right as he gathers himself up. She doesn’t let him get far, her palms cupping his cheeks as she wipes the tears again. Her thumbs are cool on his marks, not hot like her fever made her. He’s never been so grateful for the odd sensation. Even as he turns his face helplessly into her hand. His eyes are closed and his nose is stuffed, it’s a wildly unpleasant feeling. But he cannot bring himself to move from her.

Not until she gasps and her hands drop from his face to his shoulders.

He’s half blinded and his other senses are crippled, but he doesn’t need his senses to follow her gaze. He hasn’t cried, not like that. Not as an adult. But he’s pushed through worse. He stands up in one smooth motion, calling on his Fire as he pulls Pym against him. It’s impossible to know if they’re surrounded, but the closer she is the less risk of her being burned. His Fire wraps around his free hand and illuminates the area.

The man standing there doesn’t react.

He’s dressed in muted colors that would make it difficult to see him. They’re quilted and layered, making Lancelot think of his own clothing. He doesn’t wear a cloak but he is hooded and his face is wrapped, leaving only a narrow slit for his eyes to peer out of. If he’s afraid of the Fire, he doesn’t show it. He just stands there. As though he’s taking all of it in. Behind him Lancelot can hear Squirrel squawk indignantly and he realizes that they are surrounded.

“Let them go,” he says and his voice is unrecognizably hoarse.

“Or?” The figure challenges. He says nothing and there’s a derisive snort from behind the mask, “you never were good at killing.”

There’s something familiar about the voice, something he cannot place. Even though his mind struggles, something in him knows. It has to know. Even before the figure removes the hood and undoes the wrappings. Squirrel comes out from the house, escorted by others but Lancelot cannot take his eyes off the figure as the wrappings fall away.

The marks aren’t the same.

It catches him off guard. The man standing there has copper skin and marks that drip differently from his eyes. They don’t stand out the same way, but the shape is different. Different but it’s also familiar. His hair is shorn and Lancelot can see a scar that cuts across his temple and near his jaw, further twisting the marks on one side of his face. He knows his confusion must show on as some twisted humor shows in the Ash Fey’s eyes. He steps closer and Lancelot feels Pym cringe. Hie tightens his grip on her. The Ash Fey draws his blade.

“You’re still not good at it,” he remarks, raising his blade. Lancelot realizes that this might be how he dies, as the Ash Fey touches his hand and his Fire winks out. He sees the Fey’s fingertips are blackened, just as his are, “a life for a—“

Pym drops from his embrace and before he or the other Ash Fey fully understand what’s happening, she grabs the shovel and swings it into the other Ash Fey’s head. 

It connects with a solid sound and the Fey crumples into an unconscious heap at Lancelot’s feet. 


	18. Chapter 18

In hindsight, it’s not the smartest thing she’s ever done.

She sees the sword and knows there’s a chance after what she’s just witnessed that Lancelot will not defend himself. So she just strikes. In the simplest way possible. She’s not expecting it to be quite so effective. Lancelot meets her eyes as she stands over the body with the shovel. He’s wearing gloves, no skin is showing so when he falls there’s no automatic healing. Lancelot pivots instantly towards the two with Squirrel but they jump back, holding up their hands in an unmistakable gesture of surrender. Lancelot motions Squirrel and he runs forward to them. The two Fey standing there are clearly surprised but don’t move to attack. Either they know what Lancelot is capable of or they aren’t here to harm them. Pym isn’t sure which.

“What are you doing kidnapping a child?” She asks.

“We weren’t kidnapping anyone,” one says, “we were just bringing him around,” he looks up, “we mean you no harm or you’d be dead.”

“I doubt that,” Pym says, “why did he have his sword out?”

“Let him heal and you can ask him yourself.”

They’re not stupid. She looks at Lancelot. He gets rid of his Fire and nods, moving to the unconscious Ash Folk. Pym realizes she’s probably hurt him badly with the shovel. She’s lucky he’s able to heal. Even if he hadn’t been Ash Folk she’s not sure she would have done things differently. Lancelot studies his face for a moment, moving the sword aside. He takes off one of the man’s gloves and pins him before pushing his hand into the dirt. The Healing happens quickly, he’s not hurt as badly as Pym thought. Or he’s good at doing this, like he was with the Fire. His features remain smooth, Pym thinks he’s asleep until she sees Lancelot’s face.

“Did you see what you needed to?” He opens his eyes and looks at him. Lancelot meets his gaze steadily. For a long moment they just stare at each other, “or are you here to kill me?”

“I was never here to kill you,” the other man says. Lancelot raises an eyebrow, “your wife didn’t let me finish,” he huffs, “I’m not going to kill you, can you let me up?”

Lancelot moves backwards but keeps the sword. The Ash Fey sits up and pulls his glove back on. He gives some kind of signal and Pym sees the other two have vanished. The new Ash Fey gets to his feet. He lacks the kind of grace that Tristain and Lancelot exhibit. Though his face is scarred, Pym imagines that lacks those other scars too. His eyes drag over to her and she feels Lancelot move closer.

“Why have you been watching us?” She asks.

“To understand what was going on,” he says, “none of us had seen you in the woods with the Paladins, then you appeared with the Raiders. We weren’t sure if it was a plan to bring them back to the Church until they tried to kill you again. We found the ruins of their ship, then we found you in the port.”

They’ve been watched for a while. It shouldn’t surprise her, though it’s still unsettling. The group of Fey that she thinks this one is a part of is rumored to be large in number. Their ability to evade makes sense if they have a member of the Ash Folk with them. Especially when the Paladins had Lancelot. Even if he wasn’t with the party, she imagines that his scent clung to the Paladins he’d associated with. The fact that they’ve been able to evade the Paladins for so long—and the Trinity Guard—is impressive. Though she thinks if they’ve been observing, surely they understand Lancelot isn’t a threat to them. The Ash Fey’s eyes remain on her. They dart to Lancelot but when he speaks he holds her gaze.

“What’s your name?” She asks. His eyes go to Lancelot who looks at him silently, giving nothing away.

“Hector,” he says, looking back at her, “my name’s Hector,” he looks almost doubtful for a moment and looks over at Lancelot, “have you told her anything?” Lancelot returns his gaze silently, “do you remember anything?”

Pym doesn’t know what Lancelot wants to say and keeps her mouth shut. She can see advantages and disadvantages to telling him the truth. Hector is the name that he remembers his brother having, but the two of them don’t look like brothers. And even if they are, Pym doubts that is an instant assurance that they are safe around him. Given what she knows about Lancelot and the Ash Folk. Squirrel looks at her and she gives the slightest shake of her head, making him silent.

“It’s fragmented,” Lancelot says finally.

Hector looks at him for a long, silent moment and Pym thinks she can almost see the resemblance. After a moment he takes a deep breath and then nods. Pym thinks about Lancelot remarking that her scent changed slightly with her emotions, she wonders if Hector can smell if Lancelot is lying or not. She knows he isn’t. But Hector doesn’t. Not until he inhales and then nods.

“I’ll escort you back to our camp,” he says, “we’ve been watching you but our leaders want to talk to you about your Queen.”

“We’ll go gather our things,” Lancelot says.

“I’ll wait here,” Hector says.

They give each other those long stares before Lancelot puts his hand on her and nudges Squirrel in front of them. He guides them back into the house, putting himself between them and Hector. Pym feels dozens of questions spinning through her head, but she knows most can wait. She holds for any signal that Lancelot might give that they need to run, but none come from him. He guides them back into the house and does a quick sweep of the room, moving them to a spot away from the makeshift patch.

“Gather your things,” he says to Squirrel.

“Wait are we going with him?” Squirrel asks, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  
  
“No, but we need more fighters,” Lancelot says. Squirrel shifts his weight, “I can tell him we will join him in the morning.”

Squirrel seems to perk up a little at that and before Pym can get a word in, Lancelot leaves the house to speak to him. Pym grips Squirrel’s shoulder, listening for any sign of conflict but there’s only the low exchange of words. Then Lancelot comes back. Pym exhales in relief that he looks unharmed, though she knows harming him physically isn’t an easy thing to do.

“They’ll post guards around the house,” he says, “we can stay here and leave with them in the morning.”

“What did you tell them?” She asks.

“That we were here to bury the boy’s father,” he says, “and he needed more time to say goodbye. Hector—understood,” he adds.

“Is he your brother?” Squirrel asks. Lancelot nods, “I guess the good looks went to him.”

It’s an attempt at making things lighter and Lancelot smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Pym can’t imagine how odd it must be for him. Not just to have found his brother or to learn that he’s been evading him for so long, but also what happened before. She knows how much her nose is stuffed up when she cries, she can’t imagine how odd it must be for Lancelot to have his senses robbed like that. How odd any of this must be. Squirrel doesn’t remark on how red Lancelot’s eyes are. It’s clear he’s been crying to everyone, but if he finds it embarrassing he doesn’t act like that.

Pym goes over to her pack and pulls out the extra squares of bandages she brought, holding them to Lancelot. He takes one, looking at her in confusion.

“Blowing your nose might help,” she offers.

“Water too,” Squirrel adds. Lancelot looks at him. He looks down, “I heard you through the hole in the roof.”

Pym winces, though Lancelot wasn’t exactly quiet. She did her best to muffle it but decades of sobs aren’t exactly meant to be quiet. Squirrel grabs the waterskin and gives it to him as well. She doubts Lancelot’s ever had someone to help him after he weeps—if he’s managed to weep at all in the past decades. She doubts it’s ever been anything like that. He doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with himself. Pym isn’t sure what to do either. What kind of comfort will he even accept. But just standing around or pretending it hasn’t happened isn’t something she fully knows how to do.

“He’s right, the water will help. I’m sure your head hurts.”

Lancelot drinks and the thirst seems to take him after the first sip. Pym feels relief seeing him listen to his needs in a non life or death situation. He could probably finish the waterskin three times over but the fact that he drinks at all instead of dismissing it as being alright is more progress than she would have expected.

“Do you want to get your things together?” She asks Squirrel.

“Can we come back here?” He asks.

The innocence in which he asks it makes her stomach clench.

“Maybe,” she says, “but if there are things you want to take you should get them.”

Squirrel considers this for a moment.

“Do you want to go to your house?”

The offer is a kind one but it makes something in Pym cringe at the thought. If only because she knows how it used to look and what state it’s probably in. Her house wasn’t tucked away like this. It was right in the line of the Paladin’s fury. And it wasn’t as finely made. Mostly she thinks it’s probably dust and going back there, it’s not something she things she has in her. Not right now.

  
“I’d rather remember it as it was,” she says, “I don’t think there’s anything left,” she smiles, “besides, I have everything I need from the Raiders.”

Squirrel considers it and then nods, though Pym imagines the issue isn’t going to be dropped fully until they’ve left this place behind. She doesn’t know if they will ever return to the Village, if there’s ever any need to. The thought makes her sad and angry, but it also brings relief. More relief than she’s proud to admit. The idea of dying here was scary to her, for reasons that had very little to do with the dying itself. She thinks she’ll be glad when they’re gone. Lancelot touches her arm and she looks at him.

“I can go to your house,” he offers, “if there’s anything—“

“There isn’t,” she promises. He touches the beads around her wrist and she shakes her head, “those didn’t matter.”

She doesn’t know how to put into words how back when she used them it felt like there was fear in her heart instead of whatever was supposed to be there when she prayed to the Hidden. She never felt connected with them and though the connection she knows she has feels strange, it also feels real. In a way that she never felt before. Lancelot’s eyes move across her features before he nods, willing to trust her word. Pym smiles as Squirrel starts moving around the home. She waits only a moment before pulling Lancelot into one of the farther corners.

“Your brother thinks we’re married,” she points out “why didn’t you tell him we aren’t?”

“The camps like he’s talking about are usually separated by men and women,” he says, “if they think we’re a family, we have a better chance of them keeping us together.”

“Oh,” she says, recognizing the logic in what he’s saying.

“They say they’re on our side but,“ he trails off.  
  
“No, you’re right,” she says quickly, “we don’t know. This feels like a glorified kidnapping.”  
  
“It is,” Lancelot says, “but we need them.”

“I know,” she agrees, crossing her arms against a chill that has nothing to do with the cold. After just narrowly surviving this, the idea of going through a glorified kidnapping is not one that she wants to deal with. Lancelot touches the back of her hand and she exhales, “you’re right, whatever keeps us together. But why did he think we’re married?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Lancelot says.

“Is it this?” She asks, holding up her fingers. Lancelot starts to shake his head and then stops.

“I don’t know,” he says again, “if they’ve been observing me since the island it could be because—“

“Because I haven’t let you out of my sight?” She asks with a weak smile.

“We’re both guilty of that,” he points out.

“I’m sorry,” she says, feeling strangely embarrassed at what he’s saying. Though they are both guilty of it. She glances over at Squirrel and thinks about Lancelot’s earlier weeping, “I imagine it wasn’t going to change.”

“No,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment, “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I know marriage is something you said you didn’t want.”

She looks at him in surprise before remembering who she is dealing with. Marriage hasn’t been something she’s cared about or wanted. Especially not when it comes to the boys who have brought it up, as nice and life saving as they may be. She shakes her head.

“Being kidnapped makes me uncomfortable,” she says, “pretending to be your wife is probably going to be the easiest part of this.”

He smiles at that. Her hair is pulled back but for some reason she finds her fingers pushing an invisible lock of it back behind her ear. She looks as Squirrel examines things and puts the precious stuff into a careful pile on his bed. Lancelot watches as well.

“Do you feel better?” Pym asks quietly, not looking at him.

“Yes,” he says, “thank you.”

She nods.

“I’m sorry I hit your brother with a shovel,” she adds. 

“It was a good swing,” Lancelot says and the note of pride in his voice makes her smile in a way that hitting someone with a shovel probably shouldn’t.


	19. Chapter 19

“You should go talk to him,” Squirrel says abruptly, “see if he wants to come to dinner if you don’t want to do it alone.”

Lancelot looks at him and then to Pym. From near the Fire, Pym glances at them but turns, giving them what privacy the house allows. He imagines she is going to be on Squirrel’s side as well. Lancelot doesn’t know what he was expecting in meeting Hector properly, but given their previous interaction and the history that unknowingly stretches between them, he imagines that it could be worse than a sword to the neck. Still there’s a disappointment that settles in his gut, one that makes him ache to touch the scar on his collarbone. He doesn’t want to go talk to him, no matter what Squirrel suggest.

“There will be time for that when we get to the camps.”  
  
“You’re not going to leave Pym and me alone,” Squirrel says, “and we’re never alone in them anyway.”

He has a point, Lancelot knows that. His excuses keep him rooted there as he tries to figure out how to convince them all this is foolish. But most of that rides on just wanting to be near them after they almost died and he imagines neither will like that. And they are both well enough to argue now. He remembers being desperate for that and though he is thankful, it’s also incredibly frustrating. He glances over to Pym but something catches his eye in a far corner, tucked away against the wall after the bed where Squirrel’s parent slept.

It’s another bed.

“You had a sibling,” he says to Squirrel. Pym looks down. Lancelot wonders why he feels strange at the realization, “who?”

Squirrel looks down and that same dread knots Lancelot’s stomach. Did he kill her? Is she tied to a cross somewhere as a blackened skeleton? Or worse? He looks at Pym as she walks over. Squirrel looks up at her too and she smiles gently at him. He nods and scuffs his foot, somewhat shyly all of a sudden. Pym pulls Lancelot a little away.

“His sister went to live with their uncle, a long time ago.”

She says it with something her voice that concerns him, but it’s hard to hear over the pounding in his ears. He may not have killed her. It rips through him like an attack, he’s forgotten how much having hope can hurt.

“She didn’t die in the attack?”

“No,” Pym says, “not in this one anyway.”

Lancelot nods and walks over to the bed. Squirrel follows but it’s tentative. Of all the places that Lancelot’s seen him barge into without a second thought, his hesitance for the speaks volumes. He trails behind him as Lancelot looks at the bed. He looks back at Squirrel who watches him carefully.

“Can I see if I’ve smelled her before?” He asks.

Squirrel shrugs and nods. Lancelot takes the corner of the quilt and smells it. It’s been cleaned, only the faintest scent clings to it. It’s different, the most he can equate it to is some kind of mix of Squirrel and the Sky Folk females that he knows. But nothing about it is familiar except for how it smells like Squirrel’s kin. He looks over to see the boy watching him sharply.

“I don’t recognize it,” he says. Squirrel relaxes a little and nods.

“You should go talk to him,” he says.

Lancelot looks at Pym who smiles encouragingly. He realizes that he knows a lot and very little about their families. He knows so much about them, it’s a strange disconnect to have. If Squirrel has a sister whose living with a Fey uncle somewhere, Lancelot knows there is a good chance she is dead. There is something horrifying and cruel if out of the three of them, he is the one with relative left. They deserve them—they want them. He knows he doesn’t deserve them and wanting them is complicated. After what he remembers, he’s not sure if he will ever truly want blood relatives. But he has one. Sitting outside. And he’s afraid to go back out and speak to him.

“You could invite him in,” Pym suggests.

Lancelot looks at them both. It’s tempting and he’s grateful, but what he and Hector might say to each other—he isn’t sure he wants them to hear it. No matter how irrational that feeling might be. They are standing in the ruins of their village that he burned down. They’ve seen what he’s done, they haven’t shunned him for it. But he still finds he’s waiting for that to happen. Even if he was just weeping in Pym’s arms. He shakes his head and moves to the door. He glances back at them both and they smile encouragingly as he steps out into the night.

Hector glances over his shoulder before Lancelot’s even fully out the door. The light from the moon catches his marks and illuminates them. Lancelot can see some similarities in how they fall from his eyes, but there’s differences too. A blend that shows their unshared heritage. And what binds them together. Lancelot moves forward, closer to him. Hector doesn’t turn but he doesn’t run, letting him approach.

“All the years hiding, I wondered if you knew it was me,” Hector says, “if we were just playing some new version of our boyhood games,” he shakes his head, “it never occurred to me that you didn’t remember.”

Lancelot says nothing. Would remembering have made a difference? Probably not. His memories were tainted by those final moments with his relatives on that beach. If it had saved his life, he probably still would have run to Father. It’s not something he’s proud of, but so little of his life is. He knows he wanted to survive then. Back when he believed this life was precious. Before he was warped into wanting to survive out of fear. Now he feels like some mix of the two.

“How did you survive the beach?” He asks. Hector looks at him in surprise before looking back at the moon, “I remember them trying to kill us,” he tries to push down the hope, “I remember running.”

“They did that,” Hector says, “they thought it was kinder than the fire,” he looks at him, “do you remember pushing them? You’ve got that scar on your collarbone,” Hector says, tapping his own, “you pushed me as well. Between the knife and the rocks—“ he motions to the scars on his face, “I knocked myself out. Managed to land with my face above the water somehow. But the blood made them think I was dead.”

“They didn’t check?”

“The Paladins had no reason to and the others were too busy trying to catch you. Then they were too busy trying to all die together,” a note of anger creeps into his voice, “I laid there until I was sure everyone was gone. Then I lived on the island for a while until some Knights came to check. They brought me back with them, which is how I wound up here.”

He’s not sure about the emotions that collide in his gut. He’s disappointed and relieved, all mixed into one. He’s also curious about the anger in Hector’s voice. Tristain speaks with pride about her parents and the Ash Folk’s sacrifice, Hector’s tone is far closer to what Lancelot feels when he thinks of that time. Though Hector has not spent the past decades trying to strike revenge at ghosts. Perhaps running from them is better. Lancelot isn’t sure.

“You recognized me?”

“Of course I recognized you,” Hector says, “but you weren’t yourself.”

Lancelot can understand what he’s saying. He has to remind himself that Gawain only spoke to him because he was captured. That Hector being the one in there would not have been good. The memory of Gawain, tied in that chair, so close to death and still desperately trying to reach some shred of humanity in him haunts Lancelot. More than he cares to admit. Gawain wasn’t the first Fey to be there, he wasn’t the first Fey to beg. But he was the first to try and protect Lancelot, even though it was foolish of him to think the Paladins didn’t know he was Fey. Lancelot blames it on the blood loss.

“Do they know we’re brothers?”

“Some do,” Hector says, “most don’t,” he surveys Lancelot, “it’s not something that comes up often.”

“I can see that,” Lancelot says dryly.

Hector’s grimace gives way to surprised humor, something that makes him look younger. They both must look much older than they are. Lancelot knows he deserves it, Hector does not. But life is rarely fair in that way. The orphans in the house behind him are proof of that.

“I remember you in the house,” he says.

“I lived with you,” Hector tells him, “my mother died having me and yours insisted. She was—kind. She didn’t treat me like a bastard.”

Lancelot remembers his mother in the few fragments but being cruel to a baby doesn’t seem like something she would do. But he knows that could just be some weakness to believe in the good of his family. Of someone that helped make him. People are rarely good or bad, he knows that now. His mother could have been kind until it came time to cut their throats to keep secrets.

“I don’t remember our father.”

Hector shrugs.

“I don’t remember him much either. We were too young to hunt, we didn’t have much of an interest for him. And your mother wanted to keep us close,” he looks almost sympathetic, “I don’t think she trusted him after he bedded my mother.”

“Did you trust him?”

“I was too little,” Hector starts, “you were kinder. I wanted to be around you more than him.”

“I only remember one mention of him,” Lancelot starts, “he was disappointed I didn’t want to hunt.”

“If he could only see what a hunter you’d become,” Hector remarks. It stings but Lancelot knows he deserves worse, “you hated killing,” he says, “when I heard rumors about the weeping monk, I didn’t think it was you until I smelled you. And even then I had to see you to be sure.”

Lancelot doesn’t think there’s an apology big enough. He still hates killing, he always has. But that hasn’t stopped him from doing it. Saying that he hates it while standing in the ruins of the village where he murdered so many is something he cannot bring himself to do. There is nothing he can say to make this right, or if there is they are words he does not know. He would say he deserve the pain of standing next to this man and having them be strangers, but that has another side. Hector doesn’t deserve to be related to a monster like what he became. What he is still capable of being.

“There’s a third,” he says. Hector raises his eyebrows, “a former member of the Trinity Guard.”

“Did they leave like you?”

“No,” he says, “but they’re starting to come around.”

Hector nods.

“What do you mean like me?” Lancelot asks.

“Rumor was you left with the boy,” Hector says, “you stopped showing up in the search parties, they became laughably easy to evade. We would have made contact sooner but we found the forest you blew up.”

Lancelot winces. He should have expected that Hector had also kept the secret of the Fey Fire. He expected some ramifications, but he didn’t expect it to have ruined so many lives. Lives that have and that have come to matter to him. He is glad Tristain is away from the Pope and the Guard but he thinks how much more difficult it was given she had no choice. Not like he did. And his choice feels like it was hardly one at all.

“Did they hurt you?” He asks.

“What?” Hector seems horrified at the suggestion, “no, of course not. They were upset and wanted me to explain but I wasn’t hurt for keeping a secret. All Fey have them, ours is just unusually valuable.”

Lancelot has no say in what the Fey he’s been with have done to him, but Hector’s horror at the suggestion of being hurt is soothing. Considering the reaction of the Church, it’s good to know that of the survivors one had a softer landing.

“We started following you after the island,” he says, “I felt your Fire in the temple. We saw you with your family. But I wanted to be sure.”

Lancelot nods, he cannot blame him for that. He would do the same.he is doing the same.

“And I wasn’t trying to kill you with the sword, it’s something we did with sticks as boys. I didn’t think you had forgotten.”

“Repressed,” Lancelot admits finally, “I pushed it back. Pym helped me remember.”

Hector nods and accepts that, telling him something like he repressed things feels like a big deal. But it also feels right. Even though Lancelot knows a few months ago the idea of sharing information readily would be unfathomable to him.

“She didn’t know you weren’t trying to hurt me,” he says.

“I figured, she didn’t try it again,” Hector says, “did she try that with you when you first met?”

Lancelot thinks back to the tent. How injured he was physically and how broken in every other way. He thinks about how Pym had very little idea of how to actually heal any of it. How she still managed to reach through all the sharp, fractured bits and find that shred that made him who he was. How she managed to coax it to life and then drag it until instead of a shred it was pieces and now he thinks he may almost be whole. Not because of her, but because she helped him learn to do it for himself.

“She made me heal for the first time in a while,” he says, “she’s a healer.”

“I guess that’s how she knew how to aim with the shovel,” Hector remarks.

“She knows you aren’t a threat.”

“Good, I’d hate to have more of our family try to kill me. Or you,” he adds.

Lancelot nods at the sentiment.

“We’ve moved past that.”

Hector snorts and something like pride warms in Lancelot’s chest. Something familiar. Like making Hector laugh is something he cares very much about doing.

“Well, I’m glad to see your sense of humor survived,” his brother remarks.

Lancelot smiles.


	20. Chapter 20

“There’s a problem,” Pym says. Lancelot looks up at her, “I’m a terrible liar.”

“She is,” Squirrel echoes.

Lancelot looks puzzled and she hates to throw a damper on this plan or put anyone in the position, but she is a terrible liar. And when Lancelot came in, she saw the way the guards looked at them. It reminded her that they are going to have questions. More questions than when she stowed away on the ship. They needed a healer. This group of Fey are curious at best, but they are all in their rights to want revenge on Lancelot. She and Squirrel are the easiest ways to get that. And even if they decide not to get revenge, there are still going to be a lot of questions for the Fey who decided to marry the Weeping Monk.

“Don’t lie then,” Lancelot says.

“They think I’m your wife.”

“Everyone back home thought we were sleeping together,” he points out, “let them draw their own conclusions.”

“They’re going to have questions.”

“Don’t answer them,” Lancelot suggests.

Pym rolls her eyes. Of course he would say that. Lancelot has gone most of his life with secrets and letting people draw their own conclusions. He knows how to use to get what he wants—considering what he wanted was to be a terrifying tale that spread among the Fey. So they would be afraid and they would know who he was before Goliath set a hoof in their village.

“We are trying to get them on our side,” Pym points out, “if they think I am sane, me marrying you makes you someone whose more than a monster.”

Lancelot frowns.

“I thought were doing it so they would have us stay together,” he says.

“We can do it for multiple reasons,” Pym says, “this is a good opportunity. It will help them give you a chance,” she sighs at the look on his face, “so when you look like that, they won’t think you’re about to go on a rampage.”

“You could cry again,” Squirrel offers, “or you could tell them how you became friends and then let them figure it out,” he adds, “you share too much, that’s why people know you’re lying.”

Pym knows she’s a terrible liar. She also cannot stand the idea that they have an opportunity. Not to trick anyone really but to let them see Lancelot in a light that they may not have initially. It will give them a chance to recognize what she already sees in him. They don’t have time for them to figure it out on their own. And Lancelot cannot be risked. Them pretending to be married will serve several purposes, if she can pull it off when she’s still such a terrible liar.

“We’ll tell them the truth,” Lancelot says, starting to get up, “I’ll explain to Hector—“

“No!”

Lancelot hesitates and then straightens up, looking at her carefully. Pym can feel her face is warm, but not warm in a way that she’s familiar with. Nor is she sure why there’s fear pounding though her, as if what Lancelot is about to do is a slight against the only correct plan. Lancelot moves forward slowly and picks up a bowl, pouring water into it and offering it to her. Pym picks it up and something in her screams that she should set it down, but she forces herself to look into the depths of it.

Her Fingers are different.

They’re longer and look almost angry, spreading up and across more of her face. As she stares, they seem to morph into what she’s familiar with, retreating somewhat but still longer than she’s used to seeing. She forces herself not to drop the bowl as she wants to do and instead set it down, aware that the Fingers still stretch across more of her skin. She runs her tongue across her bottom lip, looking at Squirrel and Lancelot.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says, trying to will her Fingers back, “they’ll go away. It’s fine.”

“Why did you try to stop me?” Lancelot asks, not sitting down.

  
“Because there’s a good reason not to blow our cover,” Pym says. Lancelot gives her a long, silent look. One that makes her oddly nervous, “sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

Squirrel looks at her for a moment and she sees his Fingers appear. There’s a whisper in the back of her head that feels more like a gust of wind than a voice. She can feel the marks on her face change, as if her soul is protesting what he’s trying to do. His Fingers vanish and he looks up at Lancelot and shakes his head slightly.

“We should go,” Squirrel says.

“I’ll speak to Hector,” Lancelot replies, “do you have everything you wanted to take?” Squirrel nods and goes to tie up his quilt, “We’ll figure this out on the way,” Lancelot says, walking to the door.

“Don’t,” Pym says and it comes out oddly tight.

Lancelot turns and looks at her silently for a moment, judging her reaction before he opens the door regardless. A collision of disappointment and relief churns through her and she forces herself to sit down. Lancelot opens the door and Hector comes forward.

“We need to leave. Now.”

“It’s dark,” Hector says. She doesn’t see what transpires between them but Hector sighs and nods, “I’ll tell the others.”

“Thank you.”  
  
Hector nods and Lancelot comes back inside. Lancelot hands her his cloak and makes sure Squirrel has his things. Squirrel looks longingly around the room and Pym feels guilty that they have to leave on her account. Perhaps they don’t. She opens her mouth to say it but Squirrel looks up at her and grabs her hand.

“Come on,” he says, “I want to ride.”

“We’ll try to come back,” Pym promises.

  
Squirrel nods and leads her from the house. Lancelot takes his bag of things and wraps it in the tarp, protecting it as he packs up the horse. Two others who have been guarding them pack the horses with efficiency that rivals Lancelot’s. They each have a mount with them but she realizes that leaves them one mount shy. That doesn’t seem to bother Hector as he wraps his face and pulls on his hood.

“Ride with Squirrel,” Pym says to Lancelot.

“I’m fine,” Squirrel says.

Lancelot looks between them both and then speaks quietly to Squirrel. He boosts him into the saddle and adjusts the stirrups for him. Squirrel grips the reins and nods at him as Lancelot comes back, cupping his hands so she can mount. She looks at him and then back at the house. This is too much of a fuss.

“Pym.”

“We don’t have to go—“ she starts.

“Look at me,” Lancelot says. She forces her eyes back, “get on Goliath.”

She puts her foot in his hands. He boosts her into the saddle and swings himself up behind her. It seems like it takes one motion for him to do both. Pym thinks she should be behind him but he doesn’t even give the option of it. His arms are on either side of her and she can barely see the house or the village with how he brackets her. When she looks forward, Hector seems to have vanished. Then in the trees there’s a faint glow.

“Makes it easier,” one guard mutters.

The other snorts and both take off. Squirrel urges speed out of his own mount and Lancelot easily follows. Pym inhales sharply, though there’s no reason to. She’s been on Goliath before, under much more dire circumstances. But this feels almost painful. Like she’s being ripped apart in a way that has nothing to do with her body.

“Lancelot—“

“Just hold on,” he says.

She nods and blinks back tears that seem wholly unnecessary in the circumstances. She didn’t even want to be here. Now she feels like it’s physically painful to ride away. It’s a sharp turn of emotions, one she can’t quite keep straight. But she can just focus on staying on the horse as they ride through the darkness. The thing that gets caught in her throat could be a sob or a scream, but instead when she speaks it’s words.

“They said to stop running.”

Lancelot’s grip tightens around her and he looks across her face. Whatever he sees there, the familiar determination falls across his features and he looks ahead. Pym knows it’s foolish, but in a sea of foolish choices trusting him seems like the smartest move. Hector continues to light the way for them as the horses push through the darkness. They don’t pause even when they turn from the main road, though by all accounts they should. But the horses seem to know the way. Or Hector is a super naturally gifted guide. It’s probably the latter.

It’s nearly dawn by the time they get where they’re going.

It looks like just another part of the forest. The riders don’t even dismount, they motion where they want them. Lancelot nods upwards and Pym looks but she can only see the trees. Before she can ask, rails snap up and box them in. There’s a squeak and the platforms begin to rise. Goliath snorts and Lancelot lays his hand on him as they go up the trees. At a certain point, platforms appear, placed above the branches so it’s difficult to see them. At the top of one, Hector is waiting for them and hands Lancelot a pair of gloves.

“Thank you,” Pym says

“It’s no trouble,” Hector assures her, helping her down and then going to help Squirrel.

Pym looks around. The platforms are well placed and simple, several tents cluster each one. There are so many of them. Her head spins. It’s as big as a their group before Avalon, if not larger. Probably larger. Lancelot seems surprised at the group as well, though he is also far more concerned with looking at her.

“Are they gone?” She asks

“Yes,” he says.

She nods, trying to not shudder. It’s clear that the ceremony has strengthened her bond with the Hidden. But she’s never had a voice like that in her head, she’s not sure where she ends and it begins. It’s a mess, to be sure. But as she looks around, she realizes that there might be other Sky Folk here. There might be people who can help them. It hurts to feel hopeful that among all these people that might be someone she knows. But she feels it all the same.

“The leadership’s going to send someone to bring you to them, I know you must want to rest,” Hector says apologetically, “but—“

“We understand,” Lancelot says, giving her an apologetic look.

She smiles back, it will be alright. She can pretend, though the idea of using it as ardently as she thought back in the house now makes her stomach twist. Squirrel is right, if she keeps it vague and let’s people make their assumptions, it should work.

Lancelot is a good man, he can show them the same things he showed her. He doesn’t need a fake wife and as long as the people here give them a chance and meet Guinevere, what does she care what they think of her? Even if there are Sky Folk here, it wouldn’t be the first time she attached herself to someone no-one liked. That doesn’t really matter. It’s not as though she has kin here.

“Pym?”

It’s rotten luck to get what you want and to realize you didn’t want it. The voice is recognizable even though it’s been decades since she heard it. It makes sense he’s here, a group this large probably has need of multiple skilled healers. And as much as she wishes he was a terrible healer along with being a terrible family member, she knows it’s not true. She takes a deep breath and turns around to face him, though she also wishes that the platform would splinter before she manages it. It holds firm, no matter how much it feels like she’s falling.

“Hello Uncle.”


	21. Chapter 21

Pym and the man look at each other.

It’s a strange thing to see, if not for the faint similarities he’s not sure he would know if they were related. Even the faint similarities he can pick up on would be lost in the heat of battle. First relations, brothers and sisters and parents are easier to spot than nieces and uncles. He’ll give Lenore credit though, the man has enough passing similarities with Merlin that they could be equal in their resemblance to Nimue. Lancelot looks at Squirrel who seems like an upset child trying to be strong and walks over, laying his hand on his shoulder.

“But he’s awful,” Squirrel protests.

“Be still,” Lancelot tells him.

Both of them look towards them and Jonah doesn’t seem to fully recognize Squirrel, which makes sense. Boys at Squirrel’s age grow like weeds. Still having Squirrel pronounce you awful without any idea who he is, is something Lancelot remembers being particularly annoying. They just saved the boys life, they don’t need anyone to change that. If Jonah is capable of such things. Jonah looks confused still and Pym offers no explanation. So he turns to Hector.

Hector puts his arm across his chest in some kind of bow.

“When you said there were Sky Folk with him, I wasn’t expecting it to be Pym.”

Pym makes a sound in the back of her throat.

“Shockingly I’ve survived,” she says and there’s anger in her voice that Lancelot hasn’t heard in a while, “I’m surprised you stopped running long enough to find this place,” she snaps.

“I came here some time ago,” Jonah says.

Hector looks at Lancelot, something pleading in his gaze. It’s clear that Jonah came here some time ago and whatever happened since then, he’s risen through the ranks. He’s the leader that they are here to see. Or one of them anyway. As much as Pym wants to tell him off, Lancelot knows right now her anger is not entirely her own. And even if it was, the short term satisfaction is not going to be useful. No matter how much it is earned.

“We thank you for your hospitality,” he says, trying not to cringe when all of their eyes slam into him, their eyes a mix of fear and revulsion.

“Hector has vouched for you,” Jonah says. Lancelot nods, “the others—-

“He’s my Squire and he and Pym are together,” Squirrel says, “I’m Percival, Gullayad’s son. Gawain Knighted me.”

Hector raises an eyebrow at him and Lancelot nods. He sees no shame in being Squirrel’s Squire, even if the arrangement is more complicated than it would seem. Hector doesn’t press it, though if he’s been observing Lancelot knows he’s seen him teaching Squirrel more than the other way around.

“We’re all kin,” Pym says.

“You two are married?” Jonah asks.

“As married as you are,” Pym snaps. She glances at Hector, “do they not know you left your wife and daughter behind when you ran here?”

“Nimue was—“

“We know,” Hector says quickly, “perhaps we should speak in the morning. We’ve ridden through the night.”

“That’s not possible,” Jonah says, almost apologetically, “not with him.”

“Speak to me,” Lancelot says, “let them rest,” he nudges Squirrel who yawns dramatically.

“That’s not possible,” Jonah says.

“I need to speak to Pym,” he says.

They look at each other and nod. Lancelot motions Pym over and it seems to take effort to come over to him. Her Fingers haven’t shown yet, but it’s a near thing. He can smell the way the anger has changed her scent already. He sees Jonah looking at them and turns so the only thing Jonah can see is his back, though Pym immediately tries to crane her neck to look at him.

“We need them,” he reminds her.

“Not him,” she snaps and this time her Fingers do come out.

“Yes,” he says, “you need to control yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says, “you’ve been chosen as a Summoner.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m not powerful like you. I just got chosen because—“

“There was no-one else?”

“Don’t interrupt me!”

Her voice is loud and angry and the Fingers become stark against her skin. Any hope he had of helping her by putting distance between her and the Sky People’s village is dashed. He glances up to the somewhat complicated web of rope and pulleys that seem to move the platforms around and stabilize them. Now is not the time for someone like Pym to lose control of a newly heightened power. One knot coming undone could mean a lot of death. Pym hasn’t followed his gaze though, she’s looking at him. Still angry. Still with her Fingers out.

Stupidly, he realizes he has no idea how to reach her.

It’s not like when she was able to reach him by suggesting that he pray to dampen his Fire. He has no idea how she figured out how to do that. There’s something wild about her, something that he hasn’t seen before. But he knows if they go with Jonah while she’s like this, it’s going to be difficult to get these people on their side. No matter how justified she is in their anger. No matter how badly he deserves her anger. He wracks his brain for anything. The only time he’s come close is when they were on the shores of Avalon, but generating Fire here won’t be welcome.

With no other particularly brilliant ideas, he grabs his prayer beads and puts them in her hand.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting but she closes her fingers over them and looks down, then back at him in confusion. The confusion is preferable to the other emotional wave she was caught in, one he can smell is not entirely her own. It’s something they have no choice but to sort through after this. He keeps his eyes on her as she grips the beads. The paleness of her knuckles is familiar. He has no idea how many times his own grip was around them just as tightly.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

“I’m sorry for yelling,” she says, pressing her free hand to her cheek, “are they gone?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Here,” she tries to give the beads back but he shakes his head.

“Focus on them,” he advises.

She nods, still looking unsettled but tucking them and her hand into her pocket. They approach the others again and Lancelot nods to them, letting Hector and Jonah lead them. Goliath huffs behind him but Lancelot knows he will remain there.

“Your horse navigates well for having one eye,” Hector says, “was he born that way?”

“He lost it to an arrow,” he says, “from an attack by the Trinity Guard.”

Hector glances at Jonah and Lancelot realizes what he’s doing, though Jonah’s only noticeable reaction is to clear his throat. Hector is on their side and though he knows he should be suspicious of it, instead he finds himself grateful for it. Jonah leads them up a series of smaller platforms embedded into the side of a tree like mushrooms and to an even higher level. The platform they step onto finally is one completely suspended from the tree. One that can be lowered quickly in case of an attack. There’s several people waiting for them there, all Fey. Lancelot doesn’t think there is a human among them. It’s a strange jolt from the mixed culture he’s always been up around.

He doesn’t know how Hector has stood the smell and the forest all these years.

“There was a time not too long ago when we would have killed you on sight,” one of them points out, “You’ve been vouched for.”

“I vouch for him too,” Jonah speaks up and they look at him, “my niece, Pym,” he says motioning to her, “she says they’re kin.”

“She’s your niece?”

Jonah nods. Lancelot realizes that though he finds Pym distinctive, it’s not in the same way he is. Describing a Fey with hip length red hair is not an automatic connection. One of the women has he hair unbound and it’s almost to her calves. It’s clear that, like most of the Sky Folk, Jonah underestimated Pym’s ability to survive. He braces himself for her scent to change in anger but she manages to control herself. All of them look to Hector whose been the one giving reports. He looks at them all steadily.

“I wasn’t aware of the connection.”

They all nod and Lancelot is amazed at the trust they put in him, even after finding out he was hiding his Fey Fire and another mistake, they don’t act like he’s embarrassed or failed them. There’s no rebuke. Even their reaction to finding out about the Fey Fire seems to have amounted to a stern talking to. An envy he barely has the words for settles in him, even as he tries to push it away. 

“Is he safe to be here?”

“Yes,” Hector says.

“And the Fire?”

“Controlled, but I can have him on my platform to be safe,” he glances at them, “perhaps we can speak of the rest of it when they’ve rested? Two are recovering from the Pox.”

The leaders confer quietly for a moment. Jonah looks over the most and when they return, Lancelot braces to be told that they must speak of everything. 

“We will speak of this tomorrow when you are rested,” he says, “you used the stores in the temple to cure yourselves?” Pym nods, “I’m surprised there was anything left.”

“There wasn’t, Lancelot smelled the mix we needed,” she says.

They seem to approve but Lancelot isn’t foolish enough to think a few good deeds erases the fact that most of the people are here because of him and the Paladins. Saving his family or even a handful of them doesn’t bring back the families that have been lost. Still the few deeds seem to buy them one night of safety. Or one night where the greatest threat is someone coming in to slit his throat in retribution. The leaders all seem to agree that this can be spoken of later and Lancelot isn’t too much of a threat.

“I’ll take them back with me,” Hector says.

No-one tries to protest.

Lancelot nudges Pym and she glares half heartedly.

“Goodnight, uncle,” she says.

He nods his head and they depart. Hector leads them along several winding platforms to one that is suspended between two trees and seemingly reachable only by a bridge. Below them the horses are grazing and Lancelot relaxes at the sight of a Goliath with the others.

They don’t want me to burn down anything in my sleep,” Hector explains.

“I don’t know how you stand being around the trees and the Fey,” Lancelot admits.

“Balm under my nose and “closely guarding my identity as an Ash Folk”,” he says, “it’s better now.”

There’s a chorus of whispers behind them and Lancelot turns, smelling the Fey even as they hide. Hector smiles and shakes his head as the scents change with a bit of fear and a bit of excitement. It’s oddly nice to not have to voice what he smells. Several footsteps peel off and race to a nearby platform.

“The little ones want a look at you,” Hector says, “we’d follow the Paladins and we picked most of them up. Some have left with their kin but most have stayed.”

“I thought they would be more afraid.”

“Children are resilient,” Hector says, “when given the chance.”

Lancelot thinks immediately of Squirrel more than any other. But also now of Bors and the other little ones. It’s a strange thing to have people to miss like that, even if they have only been gone a few days. When he looks over at Pym, she smiles back, seemingly more herself than she has been in the past few hours. It’s another thing they will have to figure out and adjust to, but there are other Sky Folk here. Maybe they can help as well.

“Come on,” Hector says, leading them inside the rounded tent that covers the platform.

It’s a strange thing to walk into a place that smells familiar. But this one does. It’s the closest thing Lancelot thinks he’ll ever have to walking back in time to where he came from. As he looks around, things make more sense than they did when he saw the ruins of the houses on the island. It’s like fitting a puzzle together the he didn’t know that he wanted to solve. Hector pulls out a trunk and brings it over, setting it down.

“There’s things here from when we first came to the Sky Folk, before the elements got them. When we heard more Sky Folk survived we kept them safe.”

“Thank you,” Pym says, “I’m sorry for all the trouble, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing,” Lancelot says immediately, “you were just chosen as a Summoner.”

“I don’t even know what that fully means,” Pym admits before seemingly remembering that Hector is here. He doesn’t seem particularly alarmed or concerned, “I wasn’t meant to be that.”

“Lancelot and I weren’t meant to survive,” Hector points out, motioning at the scars across his face, “but we did. The Gods are funny like that. Or God.”

If there’s one thing Lancelot believes it’s that all of their deities have a sick sense of humor. If he’s alive anyway. Pym smiles at that and nods.

“You must be exhausted, you can sleep over here,” Hector says, “give me a hand.”

Together he and Hector tack up a sheet to block off a portion for them. They help unroll their bedrolls and Squirrel nearly dives headfirst into his. Exhaustion winning out over everything else. Pym looks at him as he moves to the opening.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he tells her.

She nods.

All of this is strange and wonderful but he still slips out of the tent to make sure Goliath and the other horse are alright. Goliath looks up at him as he stands on the edge of the bridge, swishing his tail before deciding the grass is more interesting. After the days that they’ve had, Lancelot can’t blame him for that. He’s glad, for once, that the horse can get rest and decide grass is more interesting.


	22. Chapter 22

  
She wakes to the sound of wet snow.

It’s still cold out, but the snow they’ve dealt with has been soft. This feels heavier. It makes her want to pull the covers over her head and do her best to ward off the chill. She’s not cold, how could she be? Lancelot is like a furnace. Squirrel has found his way closer and is also sandwiched bedside him. If he minds the bodies, it doesn’t show on his face. The more comfortable he’s become, the harder he sleeps. And given where they are, who they are with, he barely stirs when she gets up and peers out to see Hector working quietly. He glances over his shoulder at her and smiles, so she moves forward.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Is that Ash Folk bread?” She blurts out before remembering his question, “sorry, I’m feeling alright. You?”

“It is,” he says, “I’m fine. All healed.”

“Good,” she nods, her eyes straying to his hands.

“Do you want to help?”

She hesitates a moment before nodding. She’s not sure if it’s just because he thinks she’s married to Lancelot or if it’s because of how close they are. She doesn’t want to ask and raise suspicion. Before she can linger in it, she gets interested in what he’s

doing. The process is strange, not like the folds that make up the Sky Folk bread. There’s no sweetness or milk or butter. It really is a few ingredients that have been prepared the night before and left out to rise. Everything else seems to be in how it’s folded and shaped.

“You brought this from the island?” She asks at the paste in the jar that is responsible for the rising.

“No,” he says, “but I knew how to make it,” Hector says, “I started again when I came here.”

Pym thinks of all Lancelot’s frustrations with his kind. The strange mix of longing and hatred that seems to color all of them. She thinks of her own frustrations with the things she remembers. Even if she doesn’t love every memory, she’s glad for what she has. What she’s able to carry on. In whatever way that she can. When she and Hector have shaped the dough, they have to leave it for another rise. Hector keeps glancing at her and Pym knows she shouldn’t invite the questions she sure he has, but he’s not the first to have them. She figures that she may as well rip the bandage off and ask the first one.

“When did you start following him?”

“We always tracked him,” Hector says, “for this? Around the beach where Gawain appeared.”

She’s surprised by how long. Though she thinks she probably shouldn’t be. The two of them have been playing cat and mouse for nearly their entire lives.

“How did you forgive him?” Hector asks.

“By getting to know him,” Pym says, “but it wasn’t something I did easily,” Hector nods, “I was angry and then I was confused. For a while. But the more we got to know each other the more I started to trust him. Even before I could admit it without feeling guilty,” Hector nods, “do you?”

“Forgive him?” He shrugs, “he saved my life. The young ones and I have—complicated feelings towards him,” he admits. Pym nods, “but I still remember him from when we were boys. I want to know the man he’s become.”

“You’ll have a chance,” Pym says.

“I hope so,” he agrees.

It’s a reminder that it isn’t guaranteed they will leave her alive. Or that these Fey will want to help them. Urgency and panic swell up like nausea and she shoves them down, gripping the beads still in her pocket. They shouldn’t ground her like they do, but at the moment Pym is just glad that they work and she isn’t running around isn’t her Fingers out. Nimue knew how to come back from that. Pym isn’t sure she is even capable of returning. Hector gives her a concerned look and she tries to smile reassuringly.

“I wasn’t anointed before I came back to the village,” she admits. He glances at her hand and she shows him the beads. His face goes blank in a way that is eerily familiar on someone else’s face.

“You don’t have a problem with it?” He asks, “with his Faith?”

“I did,” she says, “but it’s like him. It’s a part of him. And I know what having someone in charge does to a faith,” she adds, “Lenore, Jonah’s wife was High Summoner,” she explains. Hector winces, “he didn’t tell you.”

“No,” he says.

Pym hates the similar threads that seem to run through their stories. Lying to them when they were always planned to be together in Hector’s home feels foolish. Though at the same time she knows if Hector didn’t think they were together, she would have been segregated. Maybe farther than the platform. It makes that familiar bitterness well up in her, one that has nothing to do with the Hidden but something that all females share. That doesn’t make it any easier. Hector glances back at the curtain.

“He sleeps hard,” he remarks.

“This is the hardest I’ve ever seen him sleep,” Pym says, “even when we went to the island, I had to drug him and he fought it the whole way,” she shakes her head, “the past few days have been hard.”

She knows that she and Squirrel have been dying, and that has been hard. But Lancelot being powerless like that must have been horrifying. And on top of that, being convinced that if they survived they would hate him properly—Pym doesn’t blame him for falling apart. Or for being exhausted. She’s just glad that they are somewhere where he can do it safely. Or as safely as anything is when it comes to him.

“I hope being followed didn’t make it worse.”

“I don’t think it mattered,” Pym admits, “going there was our best chance—our only chance for Squirrel—I don’t think that you following would have changed that.”

Hector nods and Pym wonders how much they have in common, even with all the years that have separated them. She can see the similarities but there’s a gentleness and a maturity about Hector that she can only see beginning in Lancelot. To her, it seems like Hector is a healed scar while Lancelot is still often a gaping wound. Often, but not all the time. It’s not something she ever thought possible but she sees him healing. Settling. Being something beyond the things that have happened to him. She isn’t sure what to think about it, just that she knows how she sees him is shifting. She hears Hector say something but realizes she’s been glancing at the tent and not listening.

“Sorry, what did you say?” She asks.

“I asked when you got married,” Hector says.

Damn, Pym thinks. This is what she didn’t want to happen. She glances down at her hands and tries not to overthink her response. She has to reframe it in her head from them being married to them being family. It’s her only chance at not destroying things. She doesn’t have to think hard about when that was.

“On the way back from the island,” she says, “on the boat,” she glances down again at her hands, “we weren’t sure what this meant or if I was even supposed to have it,” she explains, “but it made us think about being family.”p

“How did you get the clay?” He asks.

“Lancelot remembered and he missed a spot on his Marks,” she says, “there wasn’t anyone to help except me.”

Hector nods. He doesn’t seem angry. When she thinks about it, Tristain didn’t either. Pym knows that even without their ‘marriage’, from the moment they walked back into camp together after that first separation it’s been clear they are close. Or maybe it was his unapologetic reaction to sharing the Fire with them, though even at the time it was a big deal. Either way, from that first night when he came into her tent it’s stopped being as clear as it maybe should have been. Though she’s tried desperately to cling to the demarcations.

“I did not think our family would be bigger when we met again,” Hector says and something relaxes in her at the notion that he still considers them family.

“Pym?”

She turns to see Squirrel coming out of the tent rubbing his eyes. They still look horrible and will for some time. He’s stopped bleeding but the bruises will remain. Hector’s word is the only thing that has let them in so far and the trust he’s willing to put in Lancelot is humbling. Squirrel looks at them both before focusing on her, somewhat shy around the others. That’s another thing. Between her Hidden induced anger and Squirrel’s shyness, it’s a miracle that Lancelot has managed to be the one to not get them all thrown off one of the platforms.

“Good morning,” she says, “do you feel okay?”

“It hurts to talk,” he says.

“I’ll boil some water,” Hector says quickly.

Pym crouches by him.

“Where?” She asks, “or all over?”

“All over,” he says. He looks around, “what are you doing?”

“We’re making bread.”

Squirrel nods.

“Am I still sick?”

“No,” Pym says quickly, “but we have to heal. You were sicker than me,” she reminds him, “the bruises are going to hurt for a bit but we can help with your throat at least.”

She looks up to see Lancelot finally emerging from the sheet. He seems surprised at being the last one up and despite the relief she feels at seeing him, she can’t help but smile at his mildly perturbed look. When their eyes meet, he glances away almost like finally getting a good nights sleep in a week is something to be embarrassed about. But Squirrel’s obvious discomfort has him coming over to where they are and crouching by the boy.

“Where?”

“My throat and back,” he says. Lancelot looks at him and he nods, Lancelot pushes up his shirt and something dark crosses his face. Pym looks and winces at the dark splotches that cover his back, “Pym and Hector are making tea.”

Lancelot puts his hand on one of the bruises and Squirrel relaxes fractionally, his heat soothing the soreness. Pym glances around for anything that they can use to replicate the sensation. Hector watches them for a moment before he moves several small cloth balls towards the fire.

“You’re a brave boy,” He says to Squirrel. They all look at him, “we weren’t so brave as children.”

Hector returns with the hot water and they add some herbs and honey. He also takes the black bags which have been warmed by the fire. He gives them to Lancelot who helps place them on the worst of the bruises. They tuck Squirrel near the fire so he’s sitting up and a bit more comfortable. It’s just soreness but Pym feels an ache in her at seeing him so uncomfortable. She knows that he was sick first, but she hates that she’s alright and he’s the one in pain. Lancelot touches her arm, bringing her back from her miserable thoughts.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel fine,” she says honestly, “really, I’m not sore. I wasn’t as sick.”

“Not at all?”

She shakes her head. He still doesn’t fully seem to believe her but it’s not as though she’s going to shuck off her dress and show he unbraided skin. The only marks on her are the burns from the sparks and eve those don’t hurt like burns should. When he glances at her hands she holds them up to show him and he frowns, taking her hand in his.

“They’re healed.”

“I know,” she says.

“It must be the Hidden,” he says.

He’s probably right and the shiver is impossible to hide as she pulls her hand back. It’s an uncomfortable, horrible thought that the Hidden have healed her. It just makes her think of Dof and their refusal to fix someone who was so kind. Who saved her life in so many ways. It’s worse when she hears something like a whisper on the wind, one that gets louder when she tries to turn her head away from it. Lancelot’s hands grasp her shoulders, steadying her.

“I didn’t want them to heal me,” she says.

“They said not to run,” he reminds her.

“Well they should have asked me about my feelings on it,” she says, fumbling out the beads in her pocket, “I didn’t want them in my head.”

Lancelot is smart enough to know her frustration isn’t directed at him. Thankfully. She doesn’t know who she’s supposed to direct it towards. The Hidden have saved their lives. But they’ve taken so much. And now with Jonah having their fate in his hands she wants to scream and tell the entire world to go away. Just for a while. Lancelot keeps his hands on her shoulders and somehow she manages to pick up the rhythm of his breathing, steadying her further. She sees Hector has turned away politely but she’s stopped caring what people think of her and Lancelot together. Him being there wouldn’t make her step away.

“You’ll learn,” Lancelot says to her.

“I know,” she agrees, though she know her displeasure shows on her face. Lancelot’s look softens and she feels his thumb move against her shoulder, “I may need to restring these before I do.”

“That’s fine,” he assures her.

She sighs and nods, feeling the whispers retreat a bit as they stand there. She looks over at Squirrel whose watching them closely and gives her a slight nod of encouragement. Whether it’s about the relationship they’re pretending to have or him seeing she’s under control, she isn’t sure. But either way she nods back before looking up at Lancelot. His eyes scan her face and she meets them, nodding again. But she’s not sure if it’s for her sake or his. Hector doesn’t seem alarmed at her outburst, for which she’s grateful. Then again, her yelling is nothing compared to what the two of them can do when they lose control. They look as a Hector turns to the bread that’s rising near the fire and even Squirrel cranes his neck to see what’s going on.

“Should we go outside?” He asks her.

Fresh air sounds nice but Pym can see the interest in his gaze at what Hector is doing and shakes her head.

“No, it’s alright. Let’s stay.”


	23. Chapter 23

The smell of the dough is achingly familiar.

Lancelot cannot remember the last time he was asleep like that and past the point where everyone was up. He never would have expected it here, of all places. But the smell of Hector and the tang of the dough lure him into a sense of safety he knows he needs to overcome. He needs to remember why he knows this isn’t safe, no matter how hard he wishes that it might be. The relief he feels when Pym says they should stay is not something he’s proud of, even though he’s proud of her strength. Instead of going to the dough or Hector, he returns to Squirrel and sits by the boy.

“Better?” Squirrel hesitates a moment before shaking his head, “the throat?”

“A little,” he says.

“I cannot smell the sickness on you,” Lancelot tells him and sees Squirrel relax a little, “but the bruises will take time to fade.”

“We can still train right? I don’t want to fall behind.”

“You’ll do better when you’ve healed,” he says and Squirrel makes a noise of disgust that shows how his throat is truly feeling better.

“Like how you waited to heal?”

Hector and Pym both smile and turn their heads. Lancelot knows that he healed somewhat and immediately started pushing his body. He didn’t expect Squirrel to throw it back in his face like that. He can speed up his healing, but there are things that take time. And there are things that he refuses to give time to. He cannot wait for the wounds in his mind to heal before he lives his life. Movement has always helped him feel better, sometimes it is the only way he knows how to communicate. He knows that Pym is aware of it, but given Hector’s response, he has a feeling that it is not something new.

“When you’re my age you can choose to do that as well,” he says.

“Don’t encourage him,” Pym says, “you both could do with listening to your bodies more instead of acting like you just need to go harder and everything will work out.”

“That’s because it has,” Squirrel says, “he can heal and we both have you.”

“That is not a good reason!” Pym argues, still managing to blush at the compliment even though it’s clear they would both be dead if not for her quick thinking in the temple, “I’d like to not have to heal anyone for a bit after that,” she adds.

“If Jonah comes back we’ll have two healers,” Squirrel says.

“We have many healers here,” Hector points out, “but no Summoners.”

“Well let’s not bank on that,” Pym says, pressing her lips together before continuing, “Jonah was a great healer. It would be useful to have him around again if this all works out.”

It’s a painful reminder that this does still all have to work out. That they still have to convince the leaders that they are worthy of their help. Or a chance at it. That what Guinevere has created is something worth continuing, this blend of human and Fey. He has seen no evidence of human here, nor have there been rumors that humans are in this group. It’s just Fey. That divide would be difficult to heal under any circumstance. But fighting for Guinevere means joining the side of the Fey who put them in this position. He cannot blame anyone for having second thoughts about doing it. It also puts Hector in a strange positions, it stains him even if he decides to stay and they make it out of here with their lives.

Squirrel nudges him with his shoulder, bringing Lancelot back into the present and he looks over at the boy.

  
“It’ll work out,” he says.

Lancelot doesn’t know how he can still have such faith, but he nods anyway.

“Come to the side,” Hector says and he helps Squirrel move to the side as Hector turns the Fire. The tent gets hotter quickly as he slides the tray with the dough inside. Water has been added and he covers it with some kind of metal lid, trapping the steam inside, “it’s the heat,” he says, catching Lancelot’s gaze.

Lancelot nods, though he doesn’t remember. Hector gives him a sympathetic look and straightens up. Despite how comfortable he feels around Hector, Lancelot doesn’t allow himself to meditate on the sensations or risk slipping into the memories. He can’t. Those memories will be there. However comfortable he feels, he risks the memories overwhelming him and taking him out of commission. He trusts Hector more than he should, he’s willing to take that risk with himself and the only living relative he’s found.

He won’t leave Pym and Squirrel without his protection.

It doesn’t take long before Hector pulls out the tray and takes back his Fire. When he lifts the covering off, inside are small rounds with slashes down the center. The top is brown and bubbled, the sides of the slashes are pulled back as the bread has puffed up. Squirrel and Pym both watch his reaction. He would like to say that he’s in control of himself as he looks at them, but when his fingers reach out he’s aware of the tremor.

“I haven’t smelled bread like this,” Pym says.

“It’s hard to get the heat where it has to be,” Hector says, picking up one and handing it to Lancelot.

He wraps Pym and Squirrel’s in cloths but they still handle them gingerly. It’s not as heavy as Lancelot would have thought, but there’s more substance to it than the light folds of the Sky Folk’s bread. He hesitates only a moment before he tries it.

The taste is sour but its not unpleasant. It’s actually very good. He can’t help but let his eyes close and remember the sensation of his mother teaching them how to do this. Sliding the rounds into the Fire. The biggest loaves always went into the pit at the center of the houses, the others would bake in the smaller ones in the center of the floor. He remembers slashing the tops. Once he remembers slashing their initials in so that they could all find their loaves. It had made his mother laugh and so he kept doing it.

He opens his eyes before the memories overwhelm him. Much to his embarrassment, he can see they’re wet and his throat is tight, though he can shove the emotions away this time. Pym settles herself next to him, giving him something else to focus on as he grips the bread. He looks over at Hector whose watching him carefully.

“We used to carve our initials into it,” he says.

Hector nods to the loaf and Lancelot is surprised to see the L dragged on his, something he hadn’t noticed before.

It’s strange to think of the man in front of him and how he has known him as Lancelot this entire time. Like some part of him has been preserved, some part was worth carrying all these years. Amidst all these atrocities. Someone knew who he truly was the entire time. Maybe there are memories to uncover in the back corners of his mind, things that he shouldn’t fear like he does. He wonders at the man he could have become if he found his way to this place somehow. If he grew here with Hecto. He has stopped believing in how things are ‘meant’ to be, but maybe there is something in that.

There’s a gentle tap on the ground and Hector moves as Pym tenses. Lancelot looks up as Jonah steps in. Hector nods and lets him in and it only makes Pym tense further.

“Good morning,” he says, “i trust you all slept well?”

“Fine,” she says.

Something frustrated shows on Jonah’s face and it’s odd to see the similarities of Pym’s expressions reflected there. But there’s a guilt on Jonah’s face that is a sharp contrast to the anger on Pym’s features. He comes over to the fire like this is something he’s done before many times and takes the food that Hector offers him.

“I came by to talk about how we move forward,” he says, “we have a mutual interest in all of us surviving. And given what we’ve seen recently from the church, it’s going to be harder if we’re apart,” he sighs, “but it’s not as simple as that.”

“So what do we need to do to make it simple?” Pym questions, bristling as though their issues are not ones she’s struggled with. Jonah glances around, “we’re all family here,” Pym reminds him.

“It’s the Monk and your human queen,” he says, “these aren’t things the Fey here trust.”

“But they trust you,” she points out.

“Can you excuse us for a moment?”

The all turn as Lancelot sets the bread aside. Pym looks at him but he knows they need to discuss things. Squirrel goes to move and he nods towards a corner of the tent. It’s too wet to bring him outside, but he figures he can grab him if he needs to. What he does need to do is talk to Pym away from her uncle. She follows him outside with an eye roll before either of them can even grab a cloak. The platform isn’t big enough for either of them to pace as they normally would, but it gives them some room. And the thinness of the tent gives them some privacy, though not as much as he wishes.

“We need them,” he reminds her.

“I know that,” she retorts, making it sound as though this is something new. Some argument he’s intent on having, “but if they’re willing to follow him, Guinevere shouldn’t be a problem.”

“She’s human,” he points out.

“So what?” She snaps, “like Nimue was a monster? You would think considering we’re almost extinct, they would get past these ridiculous prejudices. And you—“

“Killed most of their families,” he cuts in, “so did the Church and Cumber’s men. This isn’t prejudice, it’s hurt.”

“Guinevere isn’t her father,” she says.

“They don’t know Guinevere,” he says, “but they see the thing that took their families from them and forced them to this place. They need to be convinced,” she nods, “you need to convince them.”

That seems to shock her.

“Me?”

“You’re the Summoner,” he points out, “you’ve brought more people together than you know. You need to do it again,” he says, “you can’t do that if you’re thinking about killing your uncle.”

She clamps her lips together so tightly they go pale and he sees her Fingers shift under the blush that stains her skin. Evidently the Hidden don’t like being embarrassed either. Instead of reaching for the prayer beads, she folds her arms and looks up at him.

“He deserves worse,” she says.

“That won’t help,” he says.

“It might!”

“Pym.”

She makes a noise of disgust at her name or perhaps at the tone he takes. But they both know that he’s right. Killing him won’t do anything and though, in his heart, he thinks Pym isn’t the killing type. He can’t exactly find fault with her mindset either. He thinks if any of his other family had survived, he might want to do the same. He’s not sure. It’s not something he has the opportunity to struggle with. If Hector hurt him, he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t know if as a child he accepted his brother, but he knows that he saved him. That both of them seem to want the bond back or to figure out a new one.

“I just cannot believe he’s alive and here, of all places,” she says, “when the Hidden said I had to stop running away, I thought it was just from them,” she looks away, “I know you think I should forgive him but—“ she trails off, looking at him.

“I said to stop yelling at him,” he says, “your anger is making your Fingers show,” he adds. Pym shudders, “is that bad?”

“It’s uncomfortable,” she says, “it’s like my emotions are showing,” she explains.

“Your emotions were always plain,” he points out, “you don’t hide them well.”

“That’s only to you,” she says. He raises his eyebrows, “mostly to you,” she corrects, “you read me better than anyone else. Most of the time people don’t read me like that.”

“They’ll want to now, more than ever.”

The thought makes her shiver, or maybe that’s the cold. He didn’t think through dragging her out here, he just knew that if they stayed there she was going to argue more with her uncle and they would all be in trouble. Even though the snow has stopped he’s aware that it’s cold out. But instead of stepping closer, Pym steps back and looks away.

“I’m not a good leader,” she says, “I don’t know how to be the kind of Summoner we need,” she finally glances at him, reminding him of a doe that is about to run, should he make any noise, “I don’t know how to do this.”

She glances away and then back at him again and he realizes she’s not just speaking off the cuff, she’s admitting something. The fear of saying the wrong thing strikes him, along with how badly he doesn’t want to do that. And how badly he doses to want anyone else to do it, though he knows that their friends would be better suited to the task. It’s an odd, almost primal feeling that twists in him, though he does his best to shove it aside.

“You’ve been doing it,” he says, “ever since you left the village. You need to trust in yourself, as all of us do. Just because the Hidden couldn’t see it before Nimue joined them doesn’t mean the rest of us are as blind.”

She hesitates for a moment before nodding as his words roll in her head.

“You sound like Kaze,” she remarks.

“To be fair, you are acting like Guinevere,” he points out,

That makes her laugh, louder than she means to. She claps her hand over her mouth and shakes her head.

“You’re right,” she says, “but this is serious, don’t make me laugh.”

He shrugs unapologetically. If the Hidden have a problem with him making her laugh, then they will have to compromise on it because it’s not something he intends to stop doing. She takes a few more breaths, looking out at the snow and then looks back at the tent. As though she would rather stand out on the platform in the cold than be back in the warmth.

“Are you alright with the bread and everything?” She asks.

“Not really,” he admits, “it’s overwhelming.”

She nods and shoves her hand into her pocket, pulling out the tin of salve she gave him in the market. Considering how much had been left behind in their dash to get away from Morgana and Tristain’s Fire, he’s surprised to see it.

“I thought you might need it back at the village but I forgot to give it to you. Sorry,” she adds quickly, “but it may help here if things are still overwhelming.”

It amazes him that she brought it, that if she thought to punish him with his deeds she still didn’t want to hurt him. It’s a kindness he never would have expected a few months ago, even now it catches him off guard. Though it’s Pym and she constantly surprises him, even though they both care deeply for one another.

“Thank you,” he says, “I need to keep my wits about me here.”

“I understand,” she says “at least you have my scent to fall back on.”

He nods, wondering if that’s something the other Ash Folk did with the people they were closest to and realizing that it might be something Hector knows. With a final longing glance at the quiet snow, she turns to go into the tent and he catches her wrist and pulls her closer, lowering his voice.

“Say you feel sick and we’ll come back out here,” he says, “if you need to escape.”

“They’ll think I’m with child,” she points out. He shrugs, “that’s not a bad idea. I told Hector we got married on the boat back from the island. I think he believed me.”

He thinks of laying in the hammock talking their importance to one another and nods. There’s enough truth in it that she wasn’t entirely lying. Perhaps that’s the key to pulling this off, having enough truth that it’s not entirely a lie. It’s helpful going forward. Though there’s no reason for it, he wraps his arms around her and she gratefully leans into his chest.

“This is such a mess,” she says.

“It is,” he agrees.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

He nods at the warm feeling that spreads through him at the words. She looks truly regretful when she pulls back and smiles up at him and he realizes it’s a nice thing to see. Her smiling up at him with his arms around her. She looks like she feels better when she steps back and pushes her hair behind her ears.

“Let’s go convince them,” she says, taking his hand.

He nods and follows her back into the tent, ignoring the odd chill that lingers when she departs his arms and focusing instead on the feel of their hands joined together.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: discussions of a sexual nature

It’s after explaining everything that she lets herself acknowledge Lancelot’s words about letting them think she’s with child.

She doesn’t know why it turns over in her head like a wheel. He’s good with children. They’ve always had a value to him, if she considers him letting them go even during his darkest times. But she knows he’s good with them in a way she wouldn’t have expected. She still remembers the way that the all gave their most precious toys to him that night they slept out with Goliath. Even Bors who has always been afraid of everything seems to find bravery, if only to impress Lancelot. An odd wave of longing hits her as she lets her uncle think about what she’s said about how they cameo Guinevere and how Lancelot has become a valued member of their group. Being homesick was never something she thought she would feel again.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m thinking about Bors and everyone,” she says, “I miss them.”

Lancelot nods and Pym wonders if he misses them too. Most of them, they’ve known nearly the same length of time. It’s strange, Hector and Jonah are from times when they were different people almost. She focuses on her uncle. Jonah left before Bors was anything more than a babe, it seems he doesn’t recognize the name.

“Evaine’s son,” she explains.

Hector chokes on his tea.

“Evaine of Benoic?” He says. Pym nods. Lancelot looks at him curiously, “we’re related to them.”

“What?!”

Hector looks at Lancelot who stares back at him blankly and then confused.

“How?”

“Distantly,” he says, “but our mother knew her. Said they were like sisters,” he explains.

“She’s been in the village for as long as I’ve known her,” Pym says.

“This was before that,” Jonah says. They look at him, “she’s Sky Folk but not purely. The boy’s father?”

“Bors’ father isn’t Sky Folk,” Squirrel chimes up, glaring at them and daring them to say anything about the fact. Pym smiles at his bravery in defending his friend before turning back to them, “but Bors has Sky Folk powers, he’d probably smell like one.”

“So you’re cousins with Bors,” she says. Hector nods.

“Distantly but yes,” he says.

The thought almost makes her smile, but she pushes it aside. It’s a distant relation, but when she thinks of how Bors has wormed his way it into Lancelot’s heart—and vice versa—there’s an almost poetic connection between them. The idea that their mothers were friends, that someone else is connected to this complicated family tree makes her almost smile. If not for the painful reminder of how it all ended before any of them could learn the truth.

“Do you have a family here?” She asks Jonah.

“No,” he says quickly.

Pym frowns, not sure why she almost assumed that he would have just moved on. What he did was horrible, the consequences fell on them. But she also knows that wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been lied to. She ignores the anger that churns in her stomach, she knows that’s not hers. The Hidden are angry with him. And so is she, but their anger doesn’t have the hurt that hers does. That makes it easier to separate.

“I thought you would have,” she says.

“I loved Lenore,” he says simply, but the pain that lingers there echoes, “despite what happened between us.”

“Did you love Nimue?” She asks.

“I tried to,” he says. Pym fights to keep her expression neutral, “but the power she had—“

“She didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Pym says.

“You didn’t live with her,” Jonah tells her, “what you know isn’t the whole story.”

Pym opens her mouth to retort and Lancelot coughs. It’s a slip up she knows isn’t on purpose but it gives her enough to realize that she’s almost up out of her chair. What she’s planning to do, she has no idea. But she forces herself back. She reminds herself that she was afraid of the Hidden even before Jonah left, that she just had Nimue to shelter her. She grips the beads and takes a moment before looking at Jonah.

“Then tell me,” she says.

So he does.

The extent of Nimue’s powers shocks her. She knew that she was powerful, but what he describes makes her wonder how she could not know how powerful she was. The slip ups, the broken things, how many nights Jonah sat trying to figure out a way to help only to be thwarted by the Hidden and Nimue’s Druid powers. How sad Lenore was, how she was afraid as well. It makes Pym desperately sad for Nimue and what hell she went through. It also makes her want to leave and go straight to Merlin and kill him. 

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” She says.

“She was a babe,” Jonah says, “and a child. It was no fault of hers.”

Pym nods but the queasy feeling is making it difficult. She didn’t think this would turn to feeling things like sympathy for a man she’s disliked for most of her life. Someone whose actions she’s had to bear the consequences of. But what he’s saying makes her feel bad for him, like she can see him for the weary, almost broken man that he is.

“She did learn to control it,” she says, “she became very powerful. She lead us all to safety after the Paladins attacked. She and Morgana opened the doors to Avalon,” she hesitates one moment before continuing, “she had the Sword of Power before she died.”

Hector and Jonah go silent and then look at her with that hungry expression that always seems to come across men’s faces when the Sword is brought up.

“She chose a successor who wields the Sword now,”. She says.

“Who?”

“His name is Arthur, he’s a good and honorable man,” Lancelot says, “we’ve fought together many times.”

“Lancelot did try to kill him first,” Pym says, “now they fight alongside each other.”

Jonah nods and looks thoughtful at what she’s said, but not entirely trusting of it. She forgets when she thinks of him as the one who ran away that Jonah is no fool. It shouldn’t be a surprise when he asks the next question.

“Who else is with you?”

“A good number of Fey fighters. Sir Gawain is among them,” she says, “he held the port almost single handedly.”

“And the other Ash Fey?” Jonah asks.

Pym fights the urge to curse. She should have known if they were spying on them, they would have seen Tristain’s Fire. Even people not spying on them probably saw that. She sees Hector and Lancelot exchange looks, but there’s no malice in them. Relief gives her the strength to keep speaking.

“Kaze won her loyalty temporarily, but she’s not entirely with us. Yet,” she looks at Hector, “another Ash Folk may help convince her,” she says, “she only just started making Fire without needing the fuel.”

“She’s progressed quickly,” Hector remarks.

“So have you,” Pym says.

“No, I’ve been training in secret,” Hector says, “I’ve been up in the trees for most of my time here, there wasn’t any other option. But I haven’t been watched like you two.”

It’s a reminder that Hector has been allowed to grow up in a way that Lancelot and Tristain are just getting the opportunity to do. Hector’s mature, she can see it in his reactions to Lancelot. His understanding and sympathy is a sharp contract to Tristain’s wild and petulant fury. Jonah doesn’t seem angry about this and Hector only offers a smile towards him that gets an affection and exasperated sigh. There’s a respect that Pym hasn’t seen evidence of with Tristain and Lancelot’s leaders. Hector’s been a member of society, not a wild dog.

“Being in the trees like that must have been difficult,” Pym offers.

“It was, but I wanted to help as I could,” he says.

“And we’re grateful for what you did all these years,” Jonah tells them, “you saved many lives.”

The conversation is more about getting to know each other, almost as family. But when Jonah departs back to his healing duties, Pym is almost sorry for him to go. But at the same time she’s grateful he’s gone. It gives her a chance to think on what he’s said. And she does need to think on it. It and everything else that’s happening. 

“I need to check on Goliath,” Lancelot says.

“Would you like to meet the other little ones?” Hector offers.

“Yeah!” Squirrel says.

“Be careful,” Pym calls after all of them.

She bends down to examine the trunk of Sky Folk possessions but doesn’t get terribly far before she finds a gold wedding band. Something that would have been prized and guarded. The circlet is heavy in her hands, something passed down the generations. She never expected to wear one and after everything, she was always afraid to. That perhaps the people in her family were just cursed to be terrible, miserable spouses. Now she knows it’s not that simple. The weight of the band doesn’t feel terrifying.

She doesn’t hate being thought of as married.

It’s fake, but the though is still one that makes her drop the ring and close the chest. Every time she thinks about it, something settles in her chest that isn’t unpleasant. It shouldn’t be happening. Before she can truly think about it, she finds herself heading down to the horses. Lancelot sees her and is momentarily surprised before seemingly understanding that she needs to talk.

“What’s wrong?” He asks and she wishes that it wasn’t such a direct question.

“I’m having trouble with them thinking I’m your wife,” she says.

“We can tell them,” he offers.

“No, that’s not the trouble,” she says, “I don’t hate being called it as much as I think I should.”

He looks at her quietly, but she can see his confusion. Her face gets hotter, if possible and she looks around as though something out there can save her. Or eat her. Or take back the words she’s said. Lancelot looks up at her in confusion and she has to fight the urge to fidget.

“You said you had no interest in marriage.”

“I didn’t,” she says, “but hearing Jonah, I thought that he would have moved on. Or that he didn’t love Lenore like he says he did,” she chews her lip, “they weren’t in love when they got married but they wouldn’t have been the first to develop feelings for each other after the fact. But she didn’t. I was always scared of being married to someone I didn’t like.”

“Like with Aaron,” he says.

She nods.

“But Jonah never moved on,” Pym says. Lancelot looks at her, “that’s—“ she shakes her head, “it’s a sad thing.”

  
“That he didn’t move on?” He asks.

“That his heart got broken and he just stayed that way,” she admits. Lancelot looks at her blankly and she can’t blame him for his confusion, “have you ever had your heart broken? Romantically?”

“I’ve never been involved romantically with anyone,” he says.

She nods, she had guessed as much. Though he doesn’t blush nearly as hard as she would expect when the topic turns to romantic relationships. It’s not as though it’s something that’s come up. She knows that it’s nothing either of them have a great wealth of experience with. And of the experiences she has had, they’ve been complicated and heartbreaking. Even if the wounds are closer to healing than she thinks they should be.

“I liked Dof,” she says. “A lot. Maybe I could have loved him if we had the chance,” he nods, “I don’t know. It hurt when he died, though I didn’t really have time to think about it until later.”

The grief that made her isolate herself was some lethal combination of Nimue, Dof and everyone else. As if she had been running and surviving and could finally feel all the grief she had been pushing down. Not that she had much say in the matter. She can’t pretend the sight of Lancelot after the Paladins had him didn’t make her think of Dof, though somehow he survived. She glances up at Lancelot, half expecting him to be covered in blood or dead. But he’s just watching her, listening to her.

“I don’t want to just think of what could have been,” she admits. Lancelot keeps looking at her and she feels the heat climb up her face, “this doesn’t feel like something we should be talking about,” she blurts out. He gives her a puzzled look, “you are very new to not being a holy man. It feels wrong,” she admits.

“We talk about everything,” he says.

“Yes but not this,” she says. His confusion grows, “talking about romantic or sexual things, it feels like taking advantage of you. You’re so—“ she fumbles for the right word, “new. To everything, to understanding what you want.”

He looks at her blankly.

“Talking about romantic things like that and about not hating being called your wife is strange,” she stammers out, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”  
  
“I’m alright,” he says, “I’ve broken my vows.”

“That doesn’t mean you have experience. Or any of that.”

“Any of what?”

“Sexual things.”

He considers her words for a moment and then folds his legs, sitting down. She looks at him before coming over and sitting down opposite him, drawing her cloak around her. He doesn’t seem embarrassed, if anything he seems curious at what she’s asking. Pym has to think about how to phrase things gently, trying very much to focus on him and all of his intricacies.

“Do you—feel things? Sexually?” She asks, “or is there any touching you like?”

“When we hug,” he says, “and when you touch my scars.”  
  
“Okay,” she says, chewing her lower lip, “do those things ever make you—“ she motions to his lap, “hard there?”

He looks at her blankly for a moment and she wishes desperately that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. It’s not a conversation she ever thought she would have, let alone with him looking at her like that. After a moment, he shakes his head. She nods to let him know that it’s alright. A familiar look of frustration crosses his face and he hesitates a moment before speaking.

“That wasn’t allowed,” he says.

“It’s not something you can control,” she points out.

“We learn to,” he says, “and to punish ourselves if it doesn’t work.”

Her stomach twists at the thought of the scars on his back and it wanders to the big ones, the ones inflicted by someone else. She was told the dangers to her reputation, a switch was used once to discourage her but it wasn’t scarring. Not like that. It’s even crueler when she thinks about the things the Paladins would do to women before they were burned. And they had to be burned afterwards. That was very intentional.

“When the Paladins would force themselves on Fey women they would kill them afterwards. They said they didn’t want more Fey in the world.”

He doesn’t say anything but his silence is enough. She can imagine that maybe one day they would want him to create another Ash Fey, one who could track, but that would be it. It’s a terrible thought. One that has never sat well with her. She thinks about Aaron and whoever she married, how the expectation would be that she procreate and if she got lucky, that she give her husband sons to carry on his family name. It’s a horrible thought to think of being punished for what you want or being forced to procreate with someone you didn’t love. But it’s a reality of life. Families were rarely made on love and hers had always been expected to be someone who could raise her family’s standing, if her family could cobble together a dowery.

“It doesn’t seem right to be punished for something natural like that,” she admits. Lancelot says nothing, “it is natural. You know that right?” he gives no response, “do you still keep yourself—“

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she says. He shifts his weight, almost uncomfortably, “I’m sorry, this is a very strange conversation.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“How do the Fey have it?” He asks.

“They don’t,” she admits, “not really. We’re more told not to do anything until we’re married and that’s usually settled by our parents,” she toys with her fingers, “besides the ‘not doing anything’ is more for girls than boys, even though we’re both supposed to be untouched on our wedding night.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“What happens to women who have sex outside of marriage? In the Fey world? Like Hector and Bors’ mothers?”

“Shunned mostly,” Pym says, “women don’t have the same options that men to when it comes to work so they often wind up begging or worse,” she sees him go tight lipped, “Bors’ mother wasn’t like that, she lived with her parents. He grew up safe,” she explains quickly, “it sounds like Hector was safe as well.”

“I don’t remember Hector’s mother.”

“She may have died having him,” she says. A shadow crosses Lancelot’s face at the idea. Pym remembers being told time and again that having children was her most important job, it was also the job most likely to kill her. But that sacrifice was a noble one, one she should be proud to do. Something else that never sat right with her, “I’m sorry, I don’t know how the Ash Folk thought about childbirth.”

“I don’t either,” he says.

It’s nothing she ever expected to be discussing with a man, let alone a peer. Someone who is close to her own age. It’s not something she ever thought about, though the more she considers it the more she realizes how many times she’s shoved the thoughts from her head. It hasn’t only been with excuses but she can think of a few times that it has been.

“You probably wouldn’t,” she says, “men aren’t involved that usually. At least with the Folk I know. Definitely not with the humans I know. It’s not somewhere men are allowed.”

“The Church said the pain was punishment for taking the Apple,” he says, “Original Sin.”

Pym winces.

“We think it’s just because of how we’re made,” she says, “it’s how we can walk upright. It doesn’t make childbearing easy,” she crosses her arms, “it’s a terrible thing to think it’s a punishment. Enough women die doing it.”

It’s a reminder of what he believes. How his Church views women, even if he’s not a part of it. It reminds her of Aaron’s words. If she was a good Christian wife, if she bore him children, would he think she deserved to die because someone had eaten an apple they weren’t supposed to? It makes the beads in her pocket feel heavier. A further reminder that this is something anyone Lancelot is with will have to reconcile. She glances out of the corner of her eye towards him, aware she’s insulted something he holds dear but he doesn’t seem to be upset by it.

“They aren’t right about everything,” he says, “including that.”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” She asks.

“You asked me if I thought you were going to hell,” he says. The tightness in her chest is back, “I didn’t answer you. But I don’t think you would have. That was decided by a man, not by God.”

It shouldn’t make her feel better to hear such things. She knows she isn’t perfect, that the Paladins would think she was going to hell. But she knows they would be wrong if they thought that just being a Fey condemned her to such a thing. She looks at Lancelot.

“Do you have any idea what you would want from a wife?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“I’m not experienced,” he agrees, “but I’m not a child,” she opens her mouth but he shakes his head and she closes it, “I may never be a proper Fey man.”

“I know that,” he gives her a frustrated look but she pushes on, unwilling to let him think anything else, “being a ‘proper’ Fey man doesn’t make you better or more desirable.”

“What do you want?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she says helplessly, wondering why she feels as though she might start to cry, “I thought I did but it’s not so simple.”

He’s quiet and she thinks he might be about to agree that this isn’t something they should talk about. It makes her be silent, for long enough that he looks concerned and moves towards her. She doesn’t know why she jumps to her feet like she’s been burned but it’s enough to make him get up as well. Slower, like he doesn’t want to scare her off. But it has the opposite effect, she cannot handle him being caring when she’s got all of these knots in her stomach.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t something we should be talking about. I think I’ve just confused us both,” she says.

“Pym,” he starts.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, “I have to go.”

She ignores the shame and picks up her dress, hurrying back towards the trees, ignoring the call of her name.


	25. Chapter 25

He takes off after her.

She’s not hard to catch.

She wouldn’t be under most circumstances but especially not now. She seems surprised when he appears in front of her and then almost outraged. It makes him doubt if he was meant to come after her at all. But the times she’s run, it’s always resulted in distance between them. Distance they cannot afford and he doesn’t want. Not now. Not after that conversation. She opens her mouth as if to speak and the clamps her lips shut, tilting her head up to look at him. It feels as though she’s challenging him and in many was, she is. He ignores any doubts and focuses on her.

“We can talk about this,” he repeats, “i’m not a child.”

“I know that,” she says.

“Do you believe it?” He questions and she looks away, “if you’re confused about being with me—“ she goes bright red and he knows thats what this is, “talk to me.”

“I—“

“I know you can,” he cuts in, “you do, after.”

Calling her out so boldly makes her go even redder. He doesn’t understand why she’s started thinking this way or when or what it’s supposed to mean. The subject of them in this light is only brought up by people’s assumptions. He’s used to letting people make their own narratives about him, even now it’s a hard habit to break. And Pym has dismissed them all as ridiculous or things she doesn’t care about. He doesn’t understand what is happening and the need to ask things of her and to salvage their friendship churn together. Threaten to make him be sick. But he pushes past it, though it helps him understand why she would want to run from the conversation. They cannot be so caught up in handling the other with care that they run. He’s sure of that. The fact that she isn’t trying to run at the moment makes him think she knows it too.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says.

“I don’t either.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“It’s on your mind,” he says. She looks down, the both know that’s true. But he half expects her to deny it and run, “you’re not making me uncomfortable. I just don’t understand, in the way you’re talking about it.”

“I know,” she says and he isn’t sure if the frustration is at him, herself or the situation. But when she looks at him, the frustration softens, “I didn’t think when I started talking,” she tucks her arms around herself and he reaches for his cloak, “I’m not cold,” she says.

She glances around like she’s hopeful that someone will come and end this conversation, but the only ones around them are the horses. And Goliath just gives a huff and flicks his ears as though to listen in on what they are saying. She sighs and shakes her head as if she hoped the horse would be on her side and save her from continuing it. Lancelot has to fight the instinct to let her run from it. If things appear this uncomfortable between them, they will be caught in the lie before they have gotten the group of Fey on their side. There is every reason and need to have the conversation.

Except that Pym doesn’t fully seem to want to have it and Lancelot doesn’t like making her do things she doesn’t want to. Even when there’s a good, logical reason to do it.

“Pym—“

“There was a wedding ring in the trunk of Sky Folk things Hector had,” she says, “and when I was holding it, I tried to imagine myself married and I wasn’t as afraid as I usually feel when I think of it,” she explains, “and then I thought about what Jonah was saying and how he wasn’t a perfect husband, but he tried to be a good one. And I realized so much of it was me being afraid I was as like him as I thought I might be. That made me wonder how much is me being afraid to be like that in general.”

Lancelot can understand her fears. Thinking about the things they talked about makes his back sting in a way that it hasn’t in some time. It makes his fingers itch to get his prayer beads and perhaps the flog even. He knows that sharing sleeping quarters with her is tempting sin, but it’s been a very long time since that’s been a sin he’s had to think about. Or care about. Putting that aside is second nature, since he’s been doing it since he was a boy. It’s not as if he’s the only Paladin to be chaste, but he’s in the minority. They both know it. With him the threat of bringing new Fey into the world has always been there. Father told him so many times he was born of sin, it barely needed to be said that if he were to father children they would be born of sin as well. Though he’s sure eventually they would have wanted him to sire at least one to give them the advantage if he should die. Or they would if the Pope allowed it. But the conversation had come up.

“And us?” He prods, “does that scare you?”

“Of course if does,” she says, “whatever my feelings, look at what happened to Nimue and Arthur—or Arthur and Guinevere. I couldn’t bare to lose you like that. And you’re—“ she hesitates, “you’re so new to knowing what you want. Before I was sure you didn’t.”

It seems to be his turn to be called out. She’s right though. It is new. Not as new as it was but new none the less. Running after her, taking her to the village, not answering her questions—all of it is a choice. His choice. It’s not just parroting back what he knows she wants to hear or wants him to do. Even the clothes he wears are a sign of his choices, something that would have been unfathomable a few months ago. He is new to knowing what he wants and sometimes even listening to that desire makes his back itch with the reminder of it being a sin. But he knows that it isn’t, that the instinct to look at it as one was beaten and twisted into him. That is the unnatural thing. Not him.

“I know we want the same things when it comes to us.”

“You don’t,” she says and looks almost wild again. Like she’s going to run.

“Neither of us wants to lose each other,” he corrects, “do we agree on that?”

It doesn’t take away the wild look but she doesn’t run. She nods, though she looks in his face as though searching for answers there. Belatedly he realizes she’s trying to see if he’s being truthful or parroting her words back. Though it makes him frustrated to realize, it also makes it clear how much she means those words., How terrifying this actually is to speak about. It’s a conversation they cannot afford to wait to have or to be interrupted, though it’s just them and the horses at the moment. He doesn’t know why this conversation should be frightening, but it’s not something he has experience with. She’s right, she’s had her heart broken. Up until recently, he would say that his heart was more or less dead.

“We need to talk about this,” he says, almost not recognizing the plea in his voice.

Ωs``

“I-I know,” she says, stumbling over the agreement, “I don’t even know why I brought this up.”

He motions her over to where they were sitting, not fully positioning himself behind her but not leading her either. She goes, thankfully. He’s not sure why she brought it up either, but he’s glad that she did. Better this kind of conversation than letting the awkwardness build between them further. After what they’ve just been through, he’s not sure he could bear her pushing him away again. No more than she could have after he was taken by the Church. She perches there looking more like a bird about to take flight than he wishes and he settles down, trying to convey that he’s not a threat. At the end of the day they want the same things.

“You almost died,” he says, “and the Hidden are more connected to you now. They said not to run away.”

“From them,” she says.

“They may push you to face other fears,” he says. A new thought occurs to him, one that he knows is foolish. But after what they’ve just seen in the village, may not be so foolish after all, “does some part of you fear me?”  
  
“No, of course not,” she says quickly.

“Does loving me?”

She opens her mouth and then closes it. The time it takes her to gather her thoughts speaks volumes. The color on her cheeks gets worse. It reminds him of when she struggled to acknowledge them as friends and then as family. He cannot say that it’s a surprising thing. Especially not with what they’ve just seen back in her village. How easily she could have wound up as one of the burned skeletons or bodies on the ground. The thought makes him feel sick. Sicker than the thought of the people she cared about who are now dead. Though that thought is sickening as well. The thought of all the lives he’s cut short makes him feel ill. It makes him think of his father, the man who sired him. Who he thought was a monster for what he did on the beach. If deeds make you a monster, than Lancelot is one a thousand times over.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says.

“You’ve been afraid of your feelings for me before,” he points out.

“I know,” she agrees quietly.

“If they’ve changed—“  
  
“I didn’t say they changed,” she cuts in, “that band and everything just made me think this foolish thing,” she dismisses, but he sees the way she grips her skirt. It’s not a lie but it’s not the entire truth, “I thought I wouldn’t have a problem pretending because it’s not as if I cared about my reputation here,” she glances at him, “but I think it’s that and it’s because it’s you.”

“You didn’t consider me as a husband,” he says.

  
Her face goes bright red.

“Did you consider me as a wife?” She asks.

“I didn’t consider anyone in that way,” he says. She nods, he cannot figure out if that is the right thing to say or not. But it is the truth, “I wouldn’t trade our relationship to marry someone else,” he says.

“I wouldn’t either,” she agrees quickly, “that’s why I didn’t have a problem with what people said when it came to us sharing a bed.”

“So we agree on that,” he says.

She looks surprised for a moment before biting down on the smile he can see starting to form. It’s a relief, even if she tries to stamp it out given the seriousness of the conversation. But the smile is an indication he’s done something right in this. It makes him relax, if only just. Making her feel better helps, in ways that he cannot fully understand. But it does. Her feeling alright matters very much. More than him, but he knows in this case she’ll know if he’s just focusing on what she wants.

“I didn’t mean we don’t agree on things,” she says, “do you know what you would want from a wife?” She asks, “you would have choices,” she continues, “even with what you’ve done. You’re a powerful Fey.”

Something cold hits him at what he thinks she’s proposing.

“Didn’t we say we didn’t want to lose each other?”

“Yes but—“ he watches her blush, “men usually want to explore.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t know that,” she says. He gives her a plain look. She sighs, “I don’t know if that’s you or your beliefs—“

“I don’t want to explore things with anyone else,” he says.

She seems as though she’s going to argue but he watches her stiffen slightly at his words. He’s a physical person, it’s been trained into him. But there’s a stark difference between the kind of physical contact he has with Kaze or Tristain or any of his peers and the kind of contact he has with Pym. She’s the only one whose touch he seeks out. What she does with his scars isn’t sexual, they both know that. But it’s the closest thing he’s sought out to a touch that isn’t punishing. It stops short of being pleasure, he wouldn’t call it that. But it’s not punishing or harming. It makes him feel better in a way that few things do.

“It’s not that simple,” she says, “women don’t explore without being considered ruined. They don’t marry without being someone else’s property.”

There’s a pain in her voice that he understands more than he thinks she realizes. He knows what it feels like to be considered ruined, to be considered someone else’s property. He’s spent most of his life as some combination of son and sniffing dog for Father. It’s not as simple as being one or the other, no matter how much he wishes that it was.

“It wouldn’t be like that,” he says, “and you’re a Summoner.”

“Barely. Not to mention, you follow a religion that thinks I’m the originator of sin,” she looks down, “if it did—if something happened. If it ended in children, in daughters, that’s not something I would want them being told they had to believe.”

How women are viewed by his religion has never been something he’s had a problem with, though he can see he should have. Looking back he can see that he came from a culture that followed women into the twisted world of the Paladins where women were a foreign, alien thing. Nothing was worse to the Paladins than a Fey woman. But if Squirrel had woken his heart and soul from their twisted slumber, Pym had kept them alive.

“That’s not something I believe anymore,” he says, “or would teach them.”

He hates that she looks at him with doubt, that she thinks his beliefs would color or complicate how he views her. It’s not a way he’s seen her look at him in a long time. Probably not since the first boat ride. He has the gift of inexperience, he knows that he wants to be around her. He knows that he wants to protect her and that she doesn’t want to be protected from him. He’s never been in a position to have his heart possessed and broken in the way that has her looking like she does. In many ways, this is simple for him. He has no interest in being around anyone else in the way she’s speaking about and the idea of being around her like that isn’t one he hates. Or feels ashamed about. But he knows that he’s not the one who will bear the repercussions. The Fey seem to make allowances for their men that they don’t for their women.

Much like the man bloods.

Much like the Church.

“That’s a good thing to know,” she says finally and he cannot tell if that is a good or a bad thing in the context of what they are discussing.

“I wouldn’t force any of my belief on anyone,” he says.

“I know, Lancelot. But wouldn’t it be easier if you could be with someone who believes like you do?”

“It would be for you as well,” he points out. She faintly smiles, “you don’t do the easy thing when it comes to this.”

“You’re right,” she looks at her fingertips for a moment, running her thumb over one of the scars, “neither do you.”

He gives her a puzzled look and she ducks her head.

“It would have been easier for you to go back to the Church, or not to try to befriend anyone or be a Squire—or any of this,” she says. She looks up at him, “that’s not easy. But you did it.”

He nods, though at the time it felt less like a choice and more like the next thing to do. It was that or die, and she had made it clear that dying and putting Squirrel through more loss was unacceptable. At some point it did shift to being someone they could be around and then it shifted again, to that tentative idea of what he wanted. That idea solicited and took shape, it drove him forward. What they are talking about now, it feels like a compressed version of that.

He thinks of Guinevere telling him to think of a life beyond war.

He thinks of Pym’s sadness at the idea of being left behind.

He wonders how he didn’t see the two as being connect.

Something shifts at the realization though he’s not sure what. He’s confused but it’s not in an unpleasant way. Pym glances around again but the wild look has left her eyes. She seems calmer, like some weight has been lifted off of her. He can’t explain it, but it seems as though they have both felt the shift.

“It shouldn’t be a sin,” she says finally. He looks at her curiously, “if it was something—I wouldn’t want it to be a way you punished yourself,” she looks at him, “I would want you to tell me if it was.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he says.

“Good,” she says, “you should think about what you want,” he nods, “I should too.”

“We can talk about this again,” he tells her, “whenever.”

“It’s a miracle we weren’t interrupted,” she says with a hesitant smile. He nods his agreement, “I’m sorry if this complicated things.”

“I’d rather we talked,” he offers.

She looks at him quietly for a moment and then nods.

“I’m sorry I ran,” she says.

“Thank you for stopping.”

She nods.

“I forget how fast you are sometimes,” she admits, “but I’m glad you came after me.”

He shifts slightly closer and she doesn’t pull away. He’s not sure what the discussion will mean, how it will change things. He knows it’s given him things to think about, things he hadn’t considered before. Things he’s not sure if he ever would have considered before. But even with all of that, sitting next to her feels nice. Not awkward. She doesn’t look like she wants to run. She shifts closer to him.

He finds he’s glad he went after her as well.


	26. Chapter 26

The idea hits her like a bolt of lightening as she thinks about how annoyed and grateful she is for Lancelot coming after her.

“I know how to get them on our side,” she says abruptly, jumping to her feet, “we have to go. Come on.”

He follows without asking for more details as they head back into the trees. She looks around as if expecting them to all be in Hector’s tent but everyone has scattered to take care of their lives. She looks at Lancelot who takes a deep breath, his eyes closing as he goes through the scents.

“Hector and Squirrel are over there. Your uncle is up there with the other leaders.”

“Get them and find me,” she says.

He nods and it’s a testament to how much he trusts her that he turns, despite chasing after her quite desperately a short time ago. She has no plans of running away, but she smiles at him anyway before heading off in the direction he indicated. She shoves the feeling of nervousness aside as she makes her way onto the platform from last night. It’s shocking how much things have changed. They turn to look at her as she steps up onto where they are. If they deem her a threat, it doesn’t show on their faces.

“Hello,” she says. They nod in return, “thank you for letting us have some time to recover after our journey. We’re ready to talk and I have an idea of how we can move forward.”

She doesn’t have to wait long for the rest of them to arrive. She shouldn’t be surprised at the speed of their footsteps. Thankfully, Lancelot manages to keep Squirrel from falling onto the platform and Hector manages to keep Lancelot from accidentally touching anything and setting it ablaze. They look at the brothers and Pym feels the shift in the room, but she doesn’t let it derail what she has to say.

“I’m proposing you send a group to meet with our Queen,” Pym says to them, “speak to her directly, not spy on us. No matter what we prove here, we cannot make the decision to join for you.”

The group trades whispers that sound far too much like the Hidden, but she sees the nods between them. Lancelot stands behind her and the warmth of him is enough to make her stand straighter, even though she has to fight the desire to look at him. She’s not sure if they keep glancing at her or at him, but she meets their eyes every time. Jonah is the one who moves away and motions for Pym to join him. She follows without a backwards glance, joining him closer to the end of the platform.

“It was clever to give them a choice,” he says, “accusing them of spying—“

“They were spying,” she points out, “I wasn’t accusing them of anything. If what they saw didn’t make their minds up, nothing I say is going to.”

“You are not the problem,” Jonah says.

“I’m not separate from them,” she reminds him, glad there’s no lie in that, “especially not from him or our Queen.”

A mild look of frustration crosses his face but he nods and returns to the others. Pym exhales and glances back at Lancelot. Though his eyes are elsewhere, they immediately find hers. As if they share the same mind. He gives her the slightest nod and she takes strength from the gesture, turning as the group looks at them. Jonah speaks again, meeting her eyes though the look in it makes her heart jump.

“That cannot work,” he says, “you can find your way here. It puts us at risk.”

“We didn’t come after you before,” Pym says pointedly.

“You didn’t need us before.”

“We don’t need you now,” she shoots back. None of them look pleased at her response but she cannot take the words back, “you’re starving and dying. The Paladins are becoming desperate because of our victories. We can keep you safe.”

“We’ve managed to evade you and him this entire time.”  
  
“At what cost?” She already knows the answer. But it apparently needs saying, “our Queen would be willing to meet with a delegation or all of you,” she says. They don’t seem convinced and she knows there’s only one card left to play, “and whoever wants peace and safety, they can go to Avalon.”

The whispers are immediate and she knows that if they’ve been spying, they’re aware the mythical place is real. She banked on them not knowing the way. She doesn’t either, not really. But Morgana does. It’s a show of faith. It’s an offering. She cannot speak for Guinevere, but if she is the Summoner then access to Avalon is her territory. And if it shows them they are on the same side, then she’s willing to offer it up.

“None of your humans went there?”

“No,” she says, “just our Fey who wished to go. The rest chose to stay here. Your people can have the same choice.”

Jonah nods, though he looks doubtful. Pym isn’t sure if it’s about her or about Avalon or something else, but he pulls her aside again.

  
“We need to discuss privately,” he says, “you’re sure about Avalon.”

“I was there when it was opened,” she says.

“And you didn’t elect to go?”

She shakes her head. She had chosen to stay before she fully knew what she was agreeing to, but it’s not something she’s regretted. Not even when things have been hard. She’s sure she’ll go there one day, but for now she knows that she belongs here. More than that, she knows she this is where she chooses to be. And the choice is, in many ways, more important than anything else.

“I wanted to be here,” she says.

“I’m glad you are,” Jonah tells her.

Pym nods, unable to say that she’s glad they’ve been reunited. Things are still too complicated, it still hurts to look at him. In a way. Jonah looks over her at Hector and nods to him. Hector leads Squirrel down but Lancelot waits and places her in front of him on the platforms down.

“Avalon?”  
  
“I had to offer something,” she says.

“The choice wasn’t enough?”

She glances back to see if he’s being sarcastic but he looks genuinely curious. She shakes her head and he nods. Even after they’ve done so much, he manages to look mildly annoyed at the negotiations. She can’t blame him for it, she’s frustrated herself that this group will still choose fear over what should be obvious. But she also has to acknowledge she’s horribly biased, that the choice was not so easy until after she had made it.

“Come, you can wait in my tent,” Hector says.

“We can find the way back,” Lancelot points out and Hector smiles.

“I know,” he reminds him and Lancelot turns slightly red, “everyone would feel better if I escorted you. Come.”

They follow him back to his tent where he leaves them with the unspoken request not to leave. She sees Squirrel wavering slightly and guides him over to his bedroll. He goes with a small yawn. She helps him down tucks the eyes around him. He looks past her and smiles at Lancelot.

“Did you have fun with the other children?” He asks. Squirrel nods.

“I’m glad you didn’t kill them,” Squirrel says.

“Get some rest,” Pym cuts in gently, “we don’t know when we might have to leave.”

Squirrel already seems half asleep. Pym knows that’s how he’s always been, he pushes himself. He always wants to run faster. With everything with Lancelot, she knows that they can’t forget Squirrel is still recovering. That his recovery will be longer than hers and that all of it will be frustrating for him. She’s sure almost dying and becoming a proper Summoner will play with her head, but she refuses to let him face what’s coming on his own. She gets up and returns to Lancelot’s side.

“Do you think he’ll be alright to ride back?” She asks, “I barely remember the journey here.”

“Yes,” he says, “and we have more resources. If the horse is painful, we could speak to them about something else.”

“We should have kept the brace.”

He nods but it’s something they can do nothing about. Perhaps she can make something similar, but she knows that the brace that kept him upright and moderately comfortable was the product of both of their work. That wave of homesickness starts in her again and she pushes it back. They’ll be there soon enough, she just hopes it’s with everyone here who wants to come. Lancelot looks around the tent, seemingly troubled by something and Pym touches his hand.

“Do you think Hector will want to go to Avalon?” He asks abruptly.

“I don’t know,” Pym says, something in her aching at the idea, “I don’t think so. He seems to want to get to know you.” Lancelot nods, but he seems less than convinced, “you could ask him. But I don’t think he would want to go right now.”

Lancelot nods again but still seems distracted by the thought. Pym wishes that she had considered it before offering Avalon, but she supposes that sooner or later it would be something that came up. It’s something that will come up for all of them at one point. But for now they’ve chosen to live and to stay in the land of the living. Her eyes fall back to the trunk of Sky People relics. She doesn’t know what draws her over there, maybe the idea of the dead. But she kneels down and opens it again.

She shouldn’t be surprised at the beads now laying on top.

The oak beads are sturdy and practical, they are designed to last. She never wore them as frequently as she knows she was supposed to, they were forever stuffed into her pockets or ‘forgotten’ or purposely left behind in all manner of places. Lancelot comes over, though he doesn’t move behind the trunk with her. Perhaps he thinks he doesn’t have the right. She straightens up with the beads in her hands.

“These were mine,” she says.

He seems unsurprised and she supposes that in the scheme of things, this is less surprising than some of the things that have happened. He looks at the beads and then back to her.

“The string’s red.”

“Oh. Yes,” she says, “most of them are strung with blue. Other colors weren’t as costly.”

He nods. The red is still bright because she didn’t wear them like she was supposed to, but it’s not as vibrant as the red that strings his beads now. But it feels like it means something that their beads have a matching thread. Like there’s somehow been a link between them this entire time. Even though she knows that red is a common color and no such link actually exists. She’s not the type to read into such things like this. It requires more faith and belief than she’s ever really had.

“Is anything else of yours in there?” He asks. She shrugs.

“I’m amazed the beads are there,” she admits, moving some of the things aside carefully, “it’s mostly trinkets,” she says, “I don’t see anything else,” she shrugs, not terribly disappointed. The fact that there’s anything is surprising and the Hidden probably had something to do with it, “Squirrel got his things, that’s what matters.”

“Do the quilts mean something?” He asks.

It’s a reasonable question, though in light of their earlier conversation it feels different. But she pushes that feeling aside. These questions are going to come up. She cannot go red and get lost in her own emotions and embarrassment when she explains them. No more than she can do that every time she has to treat him for an injury or something.

“Not exactly,” she says, “it’s something that’s supposed to be part of a woman’s dowery. She makes it for her and her husband. Then for her children,” she explains, “sometimes when one of the partners in the marriage dies, they’re wrapped in it for their funeral pyre. I wasn’t expecting any of those to survive. Mine was very old.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry you lost your things.”

She doesn’t know why the sentiment makes tears prick at her. It seems incredibly foolish.

“It’s nothing,” she says, “we didn’t have much to begin with,” she shakes her head, “do you want to hold onto these?” She asks, holding out her beads, “until I can give yours back?”

Lancelot looks at her for a moment and then takes off his gloves, taking the beads from her carefully. They’re not his faith, she’s not sure what she expects him to do with them. But he takes them all the same. He holds them carefully, like he’s handling something precious. Even though she’s spent most of her life trying to lose or forget them in various places. His hands are much more accustom to handling prayer beads than hers. But there’s a comfort in the weight of his beads that still warm her pocket.

“Can I see the ring?” He asks.

“Oh, yes,” she says, digging through the trunk. It’s somehow flipped onto the bottom but she pulls out the circlet, “I think the Hidden have been in here,” she mutters. Lancelot looks at her sharply, “I feel fine,” she assures him, “but that was on top of the pile. Those must have been on the bottom,” she blows out the hair that’s fallen into her eyes, “I don’t like this.”

“They must be trying to tell you something,” he says.

“What?” She asks. He shrugs, “can’t they just leave a message?”

“Would you listen?”

She rolls her eyes, they both know the answer to that question, much as she’d like to say otherwise. Now she might, but before she absolutely wouldn’t. Maybe this is the Hidden trying to ease her into some kind of communication. She’s grateful they aren’t in her head whispering, but she’s not thrilled at this turn of events either. Lancelot puts the ring back in the trunk. She drags her eyes from it to him. He looks at her curiously.

“Are you thinking about what we talked about earlier?” She asks.

“Are you?”  
  
“Well, yes,” she says, “especially when I’m explaining about dowries and—“ she glances at the curtain behind which Squirrel is sleeping, “thinking about going home. Guinevere is going to try and kill you if she thinks we got married.”

“I can hold my own against her,” Lancelot points out.

  
“That’s not the point,” Pym shoots back. She sees him try not to smile and she wonders how he can smile at a time like this, “are you thinking about it?”

He nods.

“Being punished was comfortable,” he admits, catching her off guard. His brows draw together, “but when I was being punished when the Guard had me, it didn’t feel the same.”

Pym wants to say that it should never have been comfortable, but they both know that’s the way. She sees the thing he’s struggling with, she knows this kind of communication isn’t necessarily the thing he’s best with. Before she can second guess herself, she moves forward and puts herself in his space. He immediately relaxes, though only just. She looks at him.

“You’re probably not going to be able to feel things in the same way,” she says, “if your back is like the rest of you, your nerves are dulled because of the scars,” he nods, “but touching you so you can feel it isn’t the same thing as punishing you. I’m not punishing you when I touch your back.”

He hasn’t seemed to consider it like that. He looks at the fire and then back to her.

“My scars—“ he starts

“I don’t have a problem with your scars,” she cuts in quickly. The tone of her voice makes him actually startle and she feels her face get so hot, she wonders if she will ever be able to walk around without her skin matching her hair, “if that’s what you were going to say,” she adds quickly, “I didn’t want you to think that was the case,” she catches her lip between their teeth and forces herself to release it, “What were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask if you had a problem touching them,” he says, “that’s good to know.”

She nods.

“I haven’t been thinking of you in that way,” she says, “about you being attractive—“ he looks surprised again and she cannot help but roll her eyes, “you must have realized by now you’re handsome.”

He seems perplexed at the statement and she realizes that he hasn’t. How he missed it, she has no idea. He is objectively attractive. Even when she hated him, when they were enemies, she had known somewhere in the back of her head that if he was anyone else, she would have thought him handsome. It is quieter though, not like Arthur’s boldness. Though she thinks Arthur is very aware of his own attractiveness. He’s too charming not to be. She’s aware of hers too. Lancelot though is wrapped in so many layers of loathing and being convinced things like that are a sin, she’s not surprised his own handsomeness is a foreign concept to him.

He opens his mouth as if to say something but the tent opens as Hector and Jonah return. Maybe it’s the cool air as they enter or maybe it’s the pull of his warmth as he moves backwards but she immediately feels cold. Though the cold should feel good on her face, somehow it doesn’t. Lancelot’s closeness does as she rises with him. The pair of them don’t seem surprised at how they look, they seem regretful at their interruption and Pym remembers they’re supposed to be married.

“Did they decide?” She asks.

  
“Not yet,” Jonah says, “but they didn’t refuse. They’re considering the idea.”

“Which one?”

“All of yours,” he says.

Pym nods though she wishes that they had made up their minds. Mostly she wishes that they hadn’t been interrupted with nonexistent news. She nudges Lancelot and nods towards Hector. If nothing else, perhaps he can settle one thing with his brother.

“I would love to see where you treat people,” she says to Jonah, “maybe you could show me?” He nods, seeming to know something else is going on, “we’re going to discuss healer things,. We’ll be right back.”

“Healer things?” Jonah asks as she moves over to him.

“Just show me where you work,” she says, practically leading him out of the tent herself.


	27. Chapter 27

Lancelot cannot believe she’s run off.

He can, but still. He has to focus back on his brother. She’s alright, he knows that. But his first instinct is to get Squirrel and to go after her. They’re supposed to stay together. He’s half turned towards the sheet when he realizes he needs to trust her. That it’s better to let Squirrel sleep and let her go see where the healers are working. He’s seen nothing to say that Jonah will let anything bad happen to her. He looks back at Hector whose watching him closely.

“Do you not wish for her to be her running off?” Hector asks, “you can retrieve her.”

“What?” He says.

“You seem angry.”

Lancelot realizes that he must be letting his frustration show and that it must appear that he’s mad at her leaving. Not that he’s worried about her running around on the platforms. Pym’s words about husbands owning their wives drags him back to himself like he’s taken a fall. The idea is not foreign to him, but there have been times when he’s wanted something of her and she’s told him off for the idea. Even if it’s something that makes sense like opening the door when you’ve been infected with the plague instead of barricading it. Hector’s looking at him warily. He forces himself to stop.

“She almost died a few days ago,” he says.

  
“She seems alright.”

“That wasn’t a sure thing,” he admits, thinking of sitting by that fire and watching her falter. Hearing her ask to be brought to Avalon. If she had died before they had gotten there, before they had spoken, what else would she have taken to the grave? “I healed, they couldn’t.”

Hector nods and a dark look crosses his face. One Lancelot has seen on people’s features when they look at him sometimes. One they will always have. It’s the price of what he’s done. The fact that it passes at all is a miracle. He deserves far worse from them.

“They’re alive now,” he says, “your wife doesn’t seem like the type to be told where she can and cannot go.”

“She isn’t,” Lancelot agrees, “no-one should be,” he adds and hesitates, “but I’m used to it. It’s easier..”  
  
“What is? People following orders?” Lancelot nods, “they wouldn’t be people if they did,” Hector says, “but it does make things easier.”

He’s surprised at how easily they seem to think the same way. It’s hard not to look for any sign that Hector is lying, but he seems middle perturbed at the realization. As if he understands too that easy doesn’t make it the right thing. Lancelot’s aware enough to know that he’s searching for things that make them brothers, yearning for any scrap of familiarity from a time he cannot remember. Hector gives it to him. He has to remind himself that he cannot trust the ease with which it shows.

“Avalon could be open to you,” he says to Hector who looks surprised at the suggestion, “if you wanted to go.”

“No, I don’t want to go,” Hector says, “even if our loved ones are there, they would want me to stay with you. I want to stay as well,” he says, “regardless of what our leaders say.”

Lancelot nods and then hears what he’s saying.

“You want to come with us, if your people don’t?”

“These aren’t my people,” Hector says, “you’re my family.”

He means it, Lancelot can see it on his face. He would leave them behind if it meant going together. As much as he wants it, Lancelot know that Hector’s abilities to track are the reason that these people are alive. Though he realizes that only worked when the Paladins had a Fey with them. By leaving them, he’s freed Hector from the weight of what he’s done here. It’s a wonderful and crippling thought, all in the same way.

“Perhaps it won’t come to that,” he says.

“I hope not,” Hector agrees, “but that’s the truth.”

“You’re too trusting,” Lancelot says.

Hector snorts.

“You almost sound like you did when we were boys,” he says. Lancelot stares at him, “you forever hid behind your mother’s skirts, never trusting any of the men,” he explains, “you used to drag me there too,” he rubs at the scars on his face, “it saved both of our lives in the end.”

Lancelot wishes that he had always thought that way. More lives could have been saved if he had. Or if he had tried to run again instead of being so afraid. He thinks about how Hector assumed he was upset that Pym had walked off without asking him, as though she needed his permission to do something. The thought makes him feel uneasy. How easily it’s assumed that would be the way he was thinking, how the majority of other men must think and act that way. At least among these Fey. He cannot imagine Guinevere or Kaze even entertaining the idea of that behavior.

Pym isn’t like them, the fact that she’s decided that kind of life isn’t for her without the means to make her way through the world is—incredible. He settles on the word. She has her own kind of strength, which he’s always known. Though the shovel she swung at Hector shows she’s gotten better in the other kind of strength as well, if not the skill of it. It’s a far cry from what she’s relayed about her only battle. Though he cannot be upset that she was knocked out and hidden. The idea of her dying before they even met is one that fills him with dread.

Has he thought about her in the way she proposed?

It’s not as simple a thought as he’s sure they both wish it was. For either of them. He’s tortured enough men to know that if you do things incrementally, people have a way of adjusting. It’s hard to see how far they have come. How far he has come. Sometimes he still slips into old thought patterns and behaviors, but he can recognize them for what they are. He knows better how to ask for help. He’s attempted to use his looks to put the Fey at ease, but it only works if he covers his Marks and that is no easy thing to do. He knows he can pass as somewhat attractive, but his infamy ruins the illusion. Someone like Arthur or Gawain is who he would think Pym would consider, though she’s never expressed attraction to either of them.

Or rather, her attraction has been how everyone seems to be attracted to Arthur.

Has the weight in their sciences been that? It’s a strange phenomena that’s been happening with increasing frequency, one that often leaves them silent and red faced and touching each other’s hands before jumping apart. Irrationally he wishes that he could ask Hector about it, but he has no idea what Hector’s experience is and he thinks that they’re married. It should feel wrong, lying to someone whose opinion has become important in a shockingly short period of time.

  
The fact that it doesn’t feel wrong makes him pause.

Sleeping next to her didn’t feel wrong. Nor does touching her or confiding in her—even asking for help from her. He respects many now, he likes them as well. But Pym is different. Even without fully being able to name it, he knows that she’s always been different. He cannot describe how. He cannot say that has always been the case. But a kinship has developed between them, a comfort that has extended far beyond what he would have expected from another Fey. And even before that, the desire to protect her and Squirrel was there. Beyond anything that made logical sense. Squirrel, yes. But her? That was not something he had expected back in the woods when he first went against the thing he had clung to. He had reveled the Fire to her. Perhaps there was where it started, even if he had not known it then.

“I thought his was the only life I had saved,” he admits, looking towards the sheet, “and he had saved mine,” he looks at his brother, “I didn’t expect others.”  
  
“You seem to have saved a lot of lives,” Hector says, “but you saved mine first,” he adds, “don’t forget that again.”

Lancelot nods. He doesn’t plan on it. He glances towards the tent flaps and Hector chuckles faintly.

“She’ll be alright,” he says.

“I know,” Lancelot replies quickly.

“No-one would harm her to get to you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says. Lancelot gives him a pointed look, “not in front of Jonah anyway. He’s saved everyone in this place ten times over,” Hector adds.

Lancelot smells her before she walks in, he smells the way she’s changed. When she comes in she’s pale and flushed at the same time, she looks sick. Not like before, she’s not dying. But her Fingers are stark across her skin, showing just how upset she is. He gets to his feet as Jonah trails in after her. His own face seems ashen as well as he looks at her regretfully. Pym barges past him and doesn’t stop until she’s almost at the far side of the tent.

“They want us to forget,” Pym snaps. Lancelot frowns, “they say we’re a safety concern. They don’t want to move this place, so they want us to forget how we got here,” she bites her lower lip, “then they’ll send the delegation.”

“They want you to forget,” Jonah says, meeting his eyes, “I have something that will make you forget the details of the past two days. You’ll forget riding here and seeing this place.”

“Which is out of the question,” Pym says.

“They’ll send the delegation?” He says, “they won’t touch either of them?”

“Lancelot!”

He ignores her call of his name, looking for any sign that Jonah is lying. If they’ll let the two of them keep their memories in tact, if he’s the only one they need to drug, he can stand that. That’s a better trade than he would have thought possible. Squirrel is a boy who they think can’t remember and they clearly don’t view Pym as a threat in the same way. He’s the one they see as a problem. As they should. He’s the one that created the trouble.

“Surely there’s another way,” Hector breaks in.

  
“I’m sorry,” Jonah says, “the other way is the three of them forget—“  
  
“No,” he cuts in harshly. Jonah balks at the look, “I’ll do it.”

“I feel sick!” Pym breaks in loudly and storms past him. Jonah and Hector give each other a look, “Lancelot!”

“I’ll be right back,” he mutters to them as he follows her out.

She’s halfway back to the horses before he catches her, which virtually ruins the illusion. He has to put on another push of speed to catch up with her, but instead of letting him catch her she whirls around. Still angry. Still with her Fingers out and fury in her gaze. It’s not the first time he’s though she’s beautiful, but there’s a fury to her beauty now that speaks to some part of him he does his best to hide. To push away. To rise above. Something that stirs low in his gut as he looks at her as she glares up at him.

“You’re going to let them make you forget?” She demands.

“It will keep you two safe,” he says.

“I don’t care about that! You’re going to forget everything about you and Hector, about us being alright—the bread,” she pushes her hands through the escaped pieces of her hair, “everything else—“

He doesn’t know what drives him to grasp her hands with their stained fingertips. She looks up at him, worry mixing with the outrage. She doesn’t say that she doesn’t want him to forget. Though it’s clear the conversation mattered very deeply to her. It did to him as well. But she puts that low on what she wants him to remember, though she shouldn’t. Of all the things he doesn’t want to forget, that is so very near the top. She breaks his gaze, looking away and he sees her eyes grow wet as she looks upwards as if to will back the tears. He follows her gaze and sees that they are not alone. They must not want him to run off with their secrets. Her eyes narrow and she opens her mouth but he rubs his thumbs over the starburst scars on her hands.

“It’s going to be alright,” he says, “better me than all of us. You can tell me everything. Everything except how we got here.”

“But—“

“I cannot have them hurt you because of me,” he says and there’s no lie in how he says it, but the tone isn’t one he’s ever heard his voice make before.

“It’s not fair,” she says but he sees her waver as she knows he’s right.

“Nothing will be,” he tells her, “you knew that when we discussed being wed. It won’t be simple or easy with the things I’ve done.”

She almost jumps at what he says, but she remembers enough of the lie to not. And she hears the truth in his words. It’s not how he wished to say it, to remind her that no matter how they feel, even if she does decide that loving him is what she wishes to do in spite of the complications, those complications will still exist. They will need to compromise and they will need to do things that they don’t want to do. The blood will be there. He deserves it, it and so much worse. She does not. But he respects her too much to make that choice for her. He watches her Fingers tremble.

Then she leans forward and presses her lips to his knuckles.

He cannot explain the feeling it sets off in him. He’s never felt another’s lips against his skin. There are intimate ways to kiss another, he knows that. But she brushes her lips against the faint lacework scars that cover his skin. Scars she’s been there to treat. And against the hands that have been scarred by things long before they met. He feels it differently on the scars, but despite what she said he feels it on them. And he feels it on the unmarked skin, as precious little of that as he has left. Her Fingers slip away but her eyes remain bright when she looks up at him.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I will,” she promises.

He catches the blue vial that is thrown down. A shiver touches her as he looks at it. She takes the bottle from him and uncorks it, smelling it. She seems to recognize it and he trusts her skill.

“You’ll probably be knocked out for a few hours,” she says.

“Leave me here and go to Hector as soon as I take it,” he says, knowing better than to suggest she go before he does.

“But—“

“Goliath,” he says.

The horse plod over obediently and places himself besides him. It’s still far more vulnerable than he wishes it was, but it’s better than just laying there unprotected. He wishes that there was more he could do in this moment, but he knows that wouldn’t be fair to either of them. All he can do is guide her hand down to her pocket where the beads are. She closes her eyes at the tears leak out before she scrubs at her face and grips the beads.

“Sit so you don’t fall,” she says.

He does and lets himself look at her one more time before he takes the vial.

The world slips away.


	28. Chapter 28

“Pym.”

She folds her arms tighter and ignores her name, looking at Lancelot’s unconscious form. She doesn’t want to look at her uncle. Or at anyone except for Squirrel and Lancelot. Both of them are asleep in the back of the cart. Squirrel needs to sleep, she’s just glad that he can stay asleep and relatively comfortable. She needs Lanceot to wake up. Now. They’ve underestimated her. She mentally counts the turns the covered cart takes, tying different knots in a bit of string for which turns come when. If Lancelot doesn’t wake up, she’s going to get Tristain and come back here.

“Pym—“

“I’m not talking to you,” she snaps to Jonah, turning back to Lancelot, “you didn’t have to do that. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“Am I allowed to respond?” Jonah asks after a moment of quiet.

Pym reminds herself that Jonah is the better healer. That right now it’s best if he stays alive. It’s a miracle that she hasn’t killed anyone directly, but the temptation has never been stronger. Instead she forces herself to sit there and look downwards silently. Silence is the better option. Though it seems to frustrate Jonah. Which she doesn’t care for.

“Are you just going to sit there like a sulking girl—“

“You drugged my husband!” She snaps, “you’re lucky that I’m only sitting here silently.”

It takes even less to defend him as her husband, it doesn’t even register as a lie. Not with how he looked at her, how he pleaded for her to tell him when he woke up. The fact that he’ll have foggy memories at best of that conversation makes her stomach roll. And they barely even had time to discuss it. The bottle was just dropped. Jonah lets out a sound of frustration and peers out the front of the cart’s covering before coming back and sitting next to her.

“This was the kinder choice.”

“It wasn’t a choice,” Pym says. Jonah gives her a look that manages to push doubt closer to her, “what even were the other options?”

“Nothing you need to worry about right now,” Jonah says.

“No, tell me,” Pym starts, “you at least owe me that if you’re going to stuff us into a cart and drug him—“

Almost instantly there’s movement out of the corner of her eye and she finds herself pushed backwards and disarmed as Lancelot is suddenly between them, her knife to Jonah’s throat. There’s a fogged, nauseous look in his eyes but he’s pushed past it to place himself precisely to block Jonah from her and from Squirrel. He’s silent even in the small space, barely even disturbing the movement of the cart as he balances there. Pym knows how skilled he is, but sometimes it’s still shocking to see. There’s no fear in her now at the movements though, just a not quite unpleasant lick of heat somewhere low in her that she does her best to push aside. She touches his arm.

“We’re alright,” she says, “we’ve be with them for almost two days,” she says, “you were drugged to forget their location so Squirrel and I wouldn’t have to be,” Jonah gives her an almost pleading look and she ignores the desire to let him sit there a moment longer, “this is Jonah, my uncle and one of the leaders. Hector, your brother, is driving the cart.”

“Should I let him go?” Lancelot asks.

“Probably,” Pym says, “they’re part of a delegation we’re taking to meet Guinevere. We need them alive to decide if the rest of them are going to help us.”

“Where’s Goliath?” He asks.

“The horses are alongside us,” she says, “I tied them myself. When we’re further out we can ride but at the moment we’re not allowed to see where we’re going.”

“Then why am I awake?”

The question seems directed at her uncle more than her but Jonah’s eyes dart to her. She looks right back at him. He looks down at the blade and she shrugs. She can feel badly about letting Lancelot keep the blade there later. Jonah finally looks back at Lancelot, realizing the knife won’t move before he gets his answers.

“We’re trying to keep our location hidden,” he says, “to save our sick and young the danger of journeying through the winter,” he hesitates, “but you’re kin and you don’t seem a threat. I didn’t give you as much of a dose as I could have.”

“Why give it to me at all?”

“It was the better choice,” the knife moves closer, “the potion was the better alternative unless you wanted a Druid in your head.”

Pym raises her eyebrows and Lancelot waits a moment before the knife is pulled away. It makes more sense than she wishes it did. A Druid in your head wasn’t something she had been aware was an option. Which, she imagines, was the point. Lancelot needed to drink the potion fast. Before the option was presented. If the Druid they have is anything like Merlin, she imagines it was less of a choice once that option came. For all that he’s hated and distrusted, Lancelot knows the secrets that the group needs to survive. She can see the usefulness of being in his head. That doesn’t mean she forgives what has happened.

“You have a Druid?” She questions.

“We do,” Jonah says. He glances at the covering and his hands itch at his forearm, “this was a kindness,” he repeats.

Pym ignores him and his fear, that’s something to focus on later. She turns instead to Lancelot who keeps his hand where he can find the knife. She sees his fingers brush over the beads and the rest of him. He glances at Squirrel but she knows he’s already used his other senses to make sure he’s alright. She fights the urge to live in bliss that maybe the potion didn’t work and touches Lancelot’s arm again.

“What do you remember?”

He glances at Jonah and she waves her hand, “he’s not a threat.”

“It’s vague, after the hut,” he says.

He gives her a long look and Pym refuses to give into the hope she feels in her throat. Vague doesn’t mean he remembers. Not the things she hopes that he might. She nods instead, though Jonah’s words about the druid and what could await them if Lancelot remembers where they are keeps her from asking any more questions. There’s so many lies here. Lies upon lies and she is not very good at them. The threat of a Druid also makes her pause. Merlin is crippled by so many things, if this one is not—it makes her wonder if this was the right thing.

They wouldn’t be here if she had been able to control the Hidden, if they had followed whatever plan was originally in place to keep the location a secret.

But she failed and now Lancelot is paying the price.

She fights the urge to shiver. Only she knows exactly what happened in the woods between them. If it’s after the hut, he probably remembers that they’re pretending to be married. Not that they discussed what actually being together would mean. How it became a possibility. When she looks at him and he looks at her, she forces her eyes back to her hands. Blushing isn’t going to help and it’s only going to confuse him.

He was right, being with him would not be easy. The consequences have just hit her over the head in a very real way. There will be more consequences. She can handle them with how their relationship is now. But just the first tentative step into the possibility of something more resulted in him being drugged and the familiar pain of her heart being twisted. What if they had actually been together? How much worse would it hurt?

“I need to speak to him,” she says to Jonah, “privately. When can we stop?”

Jonah looks almost regretful and the covered wagon suddenly feels very claustrophobic. Her heart beat picks up slightly and she feels the need to breath deeper. She shoves her hand into her pocket and grips Lancelot’s prayer beads, closing her eyes and trying to reign in her physical reaction. Claustrophobia is not like her. Nor is this reaction to being denied. But though she tries to fight against it, she feels the outrage and panic grow. As does the heat in her face. The beads are not as effective as she needs them to be. Even as she keeps her eyes closed, she swears that gold starts to dot the backs of her eyes.

“Pym.”

She feels Lancelot carefully cup her shoulders and turn her so they are facing each other. The gold shimmer persists and she forces her eyes open. It’s clear but that means she’s looking directly at him. His eyes scan her face and she finds it’s difficult to swallow as she looks up at him. He looks at her like he usually does, but a voice in her head reminds her that he doesn’t remember. Against all logic, she feels her throat tighten as she looks up at him. Is she strong enough? She doesn’t have an answer as she stares at him.

The carriage lurches to a stop, Lancelot keeps them steady but the abrupt stop makes Squirrel wake up.

“Come here,” Pym says and her tone surprises all of them. Squirrel scrabbles over, “say nothing.”

There’s a hushed exchange of voices and it feels as though the little air in the cart has been sucked out. She cannot explain it but she knows where the figure is as they move, even when the voices go silent. Even when there is no real way to know. There are whispers in the back of her head, chorusing over one another.

The chorus seems to crescendo and then the covering is pulled back.

She has Nimue’s face.

Except it’s not.

Pym can pick the familiar fragments out, but they’ve been changed. Like a painting that was touched before it was dry. Things have been pulled and warped and pushed. There’s a harshness to her that Nimue never had. She’s a tempest, where Nimue was a calm lake. She’s as beautiful, to be sure, but there is an anger and a haughtiness to her that’s chilling. And something else, something darker. It lurks in her eyes, in her movements, even in the way that her hair moves as she looks in the cart. She wants them to see her looking, Pym realizes. And she wants them to see her.

“He’s awake,” she says.

“Not long ago,” Jonah says and his voice is tight. Her eyes snap from him to her and Pym feels her throat tighten, “my niece. The new Summoner.”

“And the Weeping Monk,” she says, looking past Pym to Lancelot.

“Who are you?” Squirrel asks.

Her eyes move to him and she seems almost surprised. Sauirrel has a habit of catching people off guard with his cleverness and speed, but doing it within five seconds of meeting them is new. Even for him. It’s like she can see through his skin to his soul. Her eyes sweep over him and Pym tells herself she’s imagining them pausing at the bruises covered by his shirt. Squirrel meets her eyes when they meet his and stares at her when they don’t. Whatever she sees, it makes her smile and Pym fights the urge to be sick. It’s not a smile she ever wants to see.

Her eyes slide back to Pym and linger on her belt, that same smile staying on her lips.

Pym realizes for the first time that she’s dressed in black that’s heavy with embroidery and lined in fur. The embroidery though, Pym recognizes it. Or the feel of it. The curves and whorls and even the silver edging. She’s dressed like the Raiders. Or how the Raiders once looked, how they used to look. Before they spent time being hardened at sea. The familiarity of the design does nothing to make Pym feel better. Only to wish, quite badly, that Guinevere was here. Squirrel opens his mouth before either of them can get to him but her eyes lock into him and even he falls silent. Pym swears the air between them glows.

“I am Medraut,” she says, “I’ll be leading the delegation.”


	29. Chapter 29

The nausea gets the better of him when Medraut returns to her carriage.

He can feel the way his mind has been slid over, as though it’s been looked at through a pane of glass. His mind reacts, pulling into itself. Hiding things and pushing things. Compartments upon compartments all stack and shut at the barest slide of an intrusion. He knows that he’s not supposed to look and he doesn’t push the covering further than he needs to in order to be sick on the ground and not the floor of the cart. Even that is a risk, if the slide of a mind over his was that much of a violation. He cannot imagine actually being invaded. The only thing he can see is dirt and hooves. Pym shoves a waterskin at him when he’s done heaving and he gratefully washes out his mouth, pushing himself back into the cart fully.

“That is your druid? Why didn’t you warn us?” Pym demands.

“She wasn’t supposed to be here,” Jonah says, moving forward towards the front.

“Why does she look like Nimue?!”

Jonah freezes. Lancelot forces himself to look from her and back to Squirrel. He looks unsettled in a way that Lancelot has rarely seen. He’s seen it too. Lancelot can guess at the reason, there’s a way that she smells that is far too familiar. It’s something chilling and unsettling. Pym and Squirrel who knew Nimue so well, they can see it. Even without his tracking ability. He shoves the rest of the nausea aside and touches Squirrel’s shoulder. The boy looks up at him, looking far more like a child than Lancelot wishes he did. Jonah hangs his head slightly and looks back at Pym. Lancelot can see the way her skin has shifted and he knows the Hidden are reacting to how upset she is. And she is upset. Him agreeing to take the drugs would be enough to do it, but what just happened has pushed her past caring.

“You know why,” Jonah says.

Pym shakes her head, anger making the Fingers come out momentarily before her old grief comes up and threatens to swallow her whole. She looks away. Squirrel nudges him. He looks shaken as well, but not in the way that Pym is. And Pym’s shaken state seems more from the obvious implications that this Druid is related to Nimue. He doesn’t want either of them to be in pain of any kind, ever but especially not so soon after just surviving the pox and the trip back to their village. But he would choose the pain they are in now rather than the feel of their mind being examined as his was. He has no choice but to focus on Squirrel.

“Did you feel her in your head?” He says lowly.

“No,” Squirrel says, “was she in yours?”

“She tried to be,” he tells him honestly. He hears Jonah mutter a swear and he turns closer to the boy, not caring if it looks suspicious and only caring that they are not overheard, “do whatever you need to to block her out if she tries,” he tells him, “do you understand?’

Squirrel nods.

Lancelot knows that he’s their prize because of the Fire but the true prize will always be Squirrel. The ability to block others, no matter what powers or lies they present, is invaluable. No-one can catch a wind of what he can do and thankfully no-one has. But especially with the secrecy this group of Fey prize so much, Lancelot knows the boy is particularly vulnerable. Especially when they return to the others. Most of all, the druid cannot find out what he is capable of.

“That’s why you know what Nimue could do, why she struggled. Because you had a Druid related to her here the entire time. Not because you suddenly thought better of her or—or cared.”

“I always cared about Nimue,” Jonah protests.

“Then why did you never come back?” Pym demands.

“I was a coward,” Jonah says.

There’s a hushed silence and the blue marks seem to pulse, as if Pym has been trying to wrench the words out of him. But there’s a silence that is an opening and he carefully touches the back of her hand. She jumps again and turns like she’s not expecting it to be him there. In the chaos some of her hair has fallen from it’s braid. It lays like fire across her skin as the blue-green of her Fingers throbs in time with her heart.

He swears he can almost see gold in the whites of her eyes.

“He said he was sorry,” Squirrel says.

When Pym looks at him, Lancelot almost wants to put himself in front of the boy and clap his hand over his mouth. Squirrel can’t reveal his power. As well intentioned as Jonah might be, Lancelot knows that they cannot trust him. Not yet. Not after this. Even Pym seems to have changed her mind after the appearance of the Druid. Squirrel doesn’t look afraid—not that he ever does—and Lancelot remembers out of all of them he has the most experience with people taken over by the Hidden. He’s very careful when he moves and he doesn’t look away as Pym’s eyes track him.

“Nimue loves him,” he reminds her and his voice trembles with the words, “she wouldn’t want you to hurt him.”

Lancelot looks at Jonah who seems frightened and crestfallen in equal measure. Lancelot has seen that look before. It’s not just the threat, it’s the familiarity of it. Jonah has seen something like this before. Lancelot imagines that it wasn’t Pym who looked at him like that. He’s seen the progression of her Fingers even just over the past few days. He’s seen what Nimue can do, when she was angry the look was very similar. But he knows Pym’s face so intimately that it’s like seeing her wear a mask. He looks at Jonah and watches him waver between resigned, frightened and frustrated.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen that look on someone’s face, but it’s jarring to see it on someone not looking at him.

“Look at me,” he says as he sees Squirrel reach forward.

He takes her hands in his before Squirrel can make contact. He trusts the boy but he cannot risk that his power will be used on Pym, She looks at him with outrage naked on her face, but clasping her hands between them seems to catch her off guard. Seems to reach past the anger.

“I know you’re angry. But your anger isn’t going to help you,” she opens her mouth, “it’s not,” he says firmly.

“You don’t know that,” she shoots back.

“I do,” he says, “you talk more when you’re angry.”

“Only with you!”

“Pym.”

She huffs out a breath. The anger has hers mixed in, but the Hidden have added something to her. Warped the anger somehow, as if it has to exist as her own feelings and stand against an all powerful, tangible force. Something that cocoons her. She is not someone that needs to be cocooned or turned, not by some force like that. But the gold eases from her eyes and her Fingers tremble against her skin, their hard edges softening. The conviction and rage eases as she looks down and then at their hands before finally looking up at his eyes.

He’s acutely aware of the hair that’s fallen across the bridge of her nose.

Lancelot pushes that awareness to the side as he watches her Fingers finally retreat, leaving just her skin in their wake. The confusion on her face grows as they sit there and he lets it. Though it hurts. But he knows the pain is necessary. She needs to understand that what is happening is not just her. That something else is happening and she needs to be able to separate herself from it. That is a kinder pain than the rest of the pain that would await if this continued without being brought under control. After another long moment she pulls her hands away, pushing her hair back and looking past him at Jonah.

  
“I’m sorry,” she says, “are you alright?”

‘I’m fine,” he assures her, “I know that wasn’t you.”

  
“It was,” she says, “me and—“ she trails off, “I’m not meant to be this,” she says.

  
“Yes you are,” Squirrel counters, “Nimue wouldn’t have picked you if you weren’t.”

“Nimue didn’t have a choice,” she says with a quick, tight smile.

  
“There’s other Druids so she did,” Squirrel points out, “she trusted you and the Hidden did too.”

Worry falls across her face but she pushes it aside to smile at Squirrel again. He holds her gaze but when she looks away he rolls his eyes, clearly not appreciating the coddling that she’s doing. When he looks at Lancelot, he gives the boy a plain look to let her do it. For now at least. Squirrel huffs quietly but nods, crossing his arms and sitting dow. Jonah joins him on the other side, helping to keep the weight of the cart balanced as they make their way down the road. Lancelot realizes that the cart they are on is as hastily thrown together as the rest of this. With everything, he finds himself as anxious to get back home as he is to make sure no-one here comes near it.

“Where’s Hector?” He asks.

“Up front,” Jonah says.

“You two spent more time together,” Pym volunteers.

Lancelot nods, not surprised from what he remembers. But it’s vague after that. He does not remember talking more to Hector in any concrete way, just vague recollections of a round tent, sour bread and a conversation near Goliath. None of them are helpful. But despite the vagueness he finds himself almost desperate to see Hector, as if he needs to know the man is alright with his own eyes. It’s a strange sensation to have for someone he only just remembers meeting. Even if they have spoken more, it has only been a few days. But the pull of brotherhood is a thread he finds himself desperate to tug.

“Oh you’re also related to Bors,” Squirrel says.

“What?” He blurts out.

“Your mothers knew each other,” Pym supplies, “you’re cousins. Distantly.”

He stares at them in surprise. More family? It’s a difficult thing to wrap his head around. Bors is no longer terrified of him, but Lancelot never would have thought he was related. Then again, he never would have thought that he was half human. From what he remembers about himself as a boy, from what he’s heard, he can see there are similarities in how they act. Though like Squirrel, Bors is a good deal braver than he could ever have hoped to be as a boy.

“Does he know?”

“No,” Pym says. Lancelot looks at her, “he’s been very upset about losing his mother and her family. I don’t think he has any idea,” Squirrel nods, “though—“ she frowns, “maybe that’s why you reacted like that to the trees he grew,” she ventures.

Lancelot thinks of his mother and of Hector and how they interacted with his Fire. He thinks of the Temple and his Fire joining others. Bors has shown no ability with Fire but there’s a connection between them. One he had thought was purely because of their shared experience. But one that Is seemingly also because of the blood that they share, however distantly. He never expected to find blood relatives, he thought he was fortunate to have family at all. He looks between Jonah and Pym who wear similar expressions.

Then he looks at Squirrel.

The boy has no living relatives and has seen someone who is clearly related to Nimue but seems far less upset about it and far more concerned about others. Lancelot remembers buying his father. There is a good chance that is the last Squirrel will see of someone related to him until the day that he has children of his own. Squirrel realizes he’s being stared at and looks up at him with a frown. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Lancelot asks.

“I’m sore,” Squirrel admits, “but I feel better now that I slept.”

It’s not what he means but he nods. This is not a conversation to have in front of others, especially not Jonah. He nods and Squirrel looks confused at what he’s asking. He doesn’t dare hope that the boy is ‘alright’, but rather that he knows that he has family. Regardless of the blood that flows through their veins. Red catches his eye and he turns to see Pym shoving the bit of leather that keeps her braid together into her pocket. She looks to see all of them staring at her and goes slightly red.

“It feels better this way,” she says, “yes I know that’s not me but this seems like an acceptable compromise.”

It’s a practical, Pym answer and Lancelot feels something loosen in the way she states it.

“Besides, we aren’t going anywhere,” she points out.

“What makes you say that?”

“We’re surrounded by armed Fey,” she says, pointing at the covering, “and there’s chains over there.”

He hadn’t seen the chains before. They aren’t iron and are irrelevant, but if they don’t fully know the extent of what he and Hector are capable of, he’s not going to share that information. Jonah sighs and looks at the covered ceiling as though he wishes to be anywhere else. It’s a feeling Lancelot can sympathize with. He supposes even the box could be used as something to contain them if it came to it. It makes him think of the burning, iron thing that Wicklow had him in. He looks at Jonah.

“If you turn this into a negotiation for our release, it won’t end well for you.”

“I know,” Jonah says, “we’re hoping it won’t come to that.”

Preemptively, he puts his hand on top of Pym’s. Before the Fingers can start. She’s clearly considered that they are prisoners but giving them an excuse to cause harm is not something Lancelot is anxious to do. They want to come with help, not add another enemy to the mix. He doesn’t blame this group for thinking they need collateral to have any hope of dealing with Guinevere. He just hopes that they can see that Guinevere is different. He also hopes that Guinevere’s idea of negotiating is more diplomatic than some of the things he’s seen her do. His capture is something that still weighs on her, more than he thought it would. He has to have faith that she will be able to see the situation for what it truly is. That they all will be.

Pym’s Fingers don’t come out, the vines don’t creep up her skin, but her hand shifts so her thumb can brush against his. The intimacy of the gesture catches him off guard, but it feels alright. Surprisingly so. He doesn’t know what has emboldened her to do it. When their eyes meet though, there’s no gold in them. Nothing to say that it’s not her who did it. She opens her mouth and then closes it, looking forward.

“You need to be more honest with us,” she says, “this only works if there’s trust between us and you keep destroying it. Hurting him and us isn’t going to bring anyone back. He’s the only one that can keep you all alive.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because he’s one of us,” she says, “and if you hurt him, it may feel good in the moment. But it means you will never have a place in this world. And I know you want that for your people.”

Jonah is quiet but Pym isn’t finished.

“You should go up front,” she says, “I know you’re here to watch us. Lancelot’s fine and if anything happens we’ll come get you. But right now, you’ve done enough to us. So you should go.”

Jonah looks at her for a moment and then nods, moving to the front of the cart and joining the one driving it. Lancelot finds it easier to breathe when he’s not in there. He sees Pym drop her head in relief and even Squirrel seems to relax a bit. He looks at Pym.

“What do we do now?”

“Rest,” Pym says, “we’re going to need to figure out a way to tell them we’re alright before we find ourselves in another war,” she looks at Squirrel, “and you need to rest because you may need to run.”

“I’m not tired though,” Squirrel says.

“Try,” Pym says.

Squirrel nods and lays down and despite his best words, he’s snoring softly in a few minutes. Pym looks at Squirrel and then turns to she’s facing him. She doesn’t let go of his hand and Lancelot looks at her. She seems sadder than she did before but also frustrated. He’s sorry for it, but not sorry for protecting her. He realizes when her finger moves, it’s against a specific spot on his hand.

“Tell me what happened.”


	30. Chapter 30

Lancelot’s eyes shut briefly and she sees the discomfort flash across his face.

Worry churns in her gut, it could be any of the things that have happened. Even if he’s alright showing pain around her, it’s not something he does regularly. There’s no dirt because they aren’t foolish enough to give him access to it, even though that’s not enough to stop him. The entire cart could be ash before they knew what was happening. Normally she would be all for playing along, but not if it makes him be in pain. She’s glad she made Jonah leave, she just wishes that they weren’t here in the first place.

“Has your head been hurting since you woke up?”

“I could feel her in my head,” he mutters, “my mind’s trying to protect itself.”

The news of it makes Pym’s stomach knot. She’d expected as much, but the whole point of that potion was some attempt at protecting him from her being there. A kindness, that was what Jonah had called it. He couldn’t know Lancelot’s experience with his head being messed with. What his mind has done to protect itself. She’s never met anyone who can repress and compartmentalize things like he can. It’s a handy thing to be able to do. It’s also not something she would stake against whatever Medraut is capable of. Though she has faith in Lancelot, the image of him laid out on the table with the iron knife in his gut and his brain swelling against his skull is one she doesn’t want to see again.

“I’ll be fine,” he adds.

“I know you will,” she says quickly, “that doesn’t mean you should just be sitting here in pain—“

His hand wraps around hers before she can fully get up and head towards the front of the cart. She looks at him and he shakes his head. She hates this part, when he shows his discomfort and she has to weigh that against his wishes. It’s not as easy as rushing forward and telling them to stop the cart, as much as she wishes it was. She would say that if it was anyone else she would do it, but she knows that’s not true. Lancelot has taught her that things aren’t as simple as blindly trying to fix everyone in the same way. She nods to him and sits back down.

“You’ll tell me if it gets worse?”

He nods.

“Can I try something?” She asks.

He nods again and she draws his hand into her lap. She knows it’s foolish to think she remembers the spot where she kissed his knuckles, but she’s sure that she does. That she’ll remember that for the rest of her days. It makes her sad and angry that she’s the only one who does. Though she knows she shouldn’t judge people quickly, she cannot help but be angry with the Druid. And with herself. She looks at the back of his hand for a moment before pinching the webbing of his thumb.

“It’s supposed to help with the headache,” she explains. She glances up at him, “is it?” He hesitates, “I don’t know if it works on magical headaches.”

“It feels better than her being in my head,” he says.

“That’s not much to go on,” she mutters, relaxing her pressure point. He slots their fingers together before she can let his hand go entirely and she keeps their joined hands in her lap, “sorry.”

“Thank you for trying,” he says, “it’s no worse.”

She sighs but nods, that’s better than if she had made it worse. Though given everything, she’s not sure how that would be possible. He hesitates and she knows he must be curious. Even now she’s somehow managed to focus in on the spot on his hand and if she’s aware of that, he most certainly is. She thinks about the way he looked at her and the plea of wanting to know. The discomfort has, chillingly, centered him and there’s far less of a plea. But there is that quiet surety that she will tell him. She thinks it’s because he has faith in her, but she knows that he also has confidence in getting the information he wants. She almost wants to focus on the latter part.

“We talked,” she starts.

She knows there’s other things that they should speak about. Probably. But she also knows that delaying the inevitable will do them no favors. She wishes that there was a quiet place where they could talk privately, but she knows no such luxury exists. She has to keep her voice down. The trust between them and their captors has already been so broken, she cannot make it worse. She knows she has to choose her words carefully. That she has to assume everyone will be able to hear. He doesn’t interrupt her and she almost wishes that he would. But that’s a cowardly thing and she cannot keep doing that to someone who just sacrificed so much to keep her safe.

“We talked about our future,” she says, “about us,” she forces herself forward, “about how I was afraid of being married to someone who viewed me as property but how being around you changed my mind. About what being together would look like if you and I wanted such a thing.”

That catches him off guard, especially the last bit. She’s not surprised he’s silent. This isn’t exactly how she wanted this conversation to happen. Until now, she didn’t realize how much she valued the privacy they stole. How the cost of her reputation and people’s assumptions were a fair price to pay. Which is almost funny when she thinks about them spying on them for as long as they have. Them because if she gives it any thought, they’ve spent far more time together than they have apart. Even with the kidnappings and the training and the weeks she got lost in her grief. Her life has been laid as bare as his for them. It’s an uncomfortable thought. No-one has ever really be interested in her life like that since she won over a group of Raiders.

“We talked about how the pox might affect us having children but how we would raise them if we did, what we would tell them about our faiths since I’m a Summoner now and yours is so important to you—“

“What did we agree?” He asks and she almost smiles.

“To let them know of both,” she says. He nods, “because you swore you weren’t going to force it on them, like you didn’t on me. But it is what you believe. And it’s not—like I thought it was. Not after what you’ve said.”

“Our faiths have a lot in common,” he acknowledges and she nods.

“We talked about a lot,” he says carefully.

“Yes,” she says.

“I didn’t want to forget it,” he begins.

“Of course not,” she says. He looks unsure, “I’m not angry at you for all of this,” she continues, “Lancelot, you only had to take it because we ran so fast—“ she shakes her head, “this is my fault.”

“You couldn’t control your powers,” he says, “you’ve seen all of us go through what you’re going through,” he glances at Squirrel, “and those who haven’t—“

She follows his gaze and shudders. What she is now is a cobbling of powers she’s not meant to have. And she’s gotten them past the years when people grow into their adult forms, when your mine is full of havoc and the slightest thing can feel as though it’s driven you mad. Going through that with the powers that Squirrel has, that Bors has, is something she doesn’t envy.

“You told me about being a teenager and what it was like,” she says quietly, “and how we were going to have to figure out how I could be touched, like we did with you.”

She looks over to see he’s completely shut down his expression, something she knows isn’t an accident. She cannot blame him for it, his shutting down is matched only by the heat she feels in her cheeks. But she hates that it’s come to this.

“We talked about a lot,” he says finally.

“We did,” she agrees. He gives her a puzzled look. She doesn’t know what he’s missing, it could be anything, “especially after I found that wedding ring in the Sky Folk things that Hector found,” she adds, “since we never exchanged them.”

She tacks on the lie at the end but she hopes he can see the truth in it of finding the ring. Even with everything she’s said, he doesn’t look like he doesn’t believe her. Or like this conversation was one that would be strange of them to have. He doesn’t look like he wants to run or move away from her. He looks thoughtful, like he’s considering what she said. But not like it’s implausible. She wonders if he was expecting they would have this conversation sooner or later, but dismisses the thought. If he had been thinking about it, he would have said something. He may look like the one with all the secrets, but when she thinks back on their relationship the one who tends to keep them is her.

“I suppose almost dying and then finding your family made me think of things we didn’t discuss,” she says.

  
“You and Squirrel are my family,” he says.

His tone sends a shiver down her spine as she looks at him. He’s serious and they both know she values the bond they have. But something about being thought of in the same breath, in that platonic way, it almost makes her feel disappointed. Which is incredibly foolish, she thinks. Even if something were to happen in a different way between them, that bond would be more important.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she says quietly.

“What do you mean?”

Frustration curls through her and she tries to push it away. But it’s harder than she wishes. She wants him to remember, she wants to finish their conversation. She also wants to push him away and run until her head is clear from all the uncertainties churning in it. Like they are all vying for space. She’s glad the Hidden whisper to her rarely. At the moment she’s not sure there’s room for them in the back of her head with all of her own emotions there.

They had talked about figuring out what they want.

It’s the same question she knows has been in the back of her mind. Like a shadow. Probably throughout their entire friendship, though it hasn’t always been visible. She knows he’s a good man, deep in his core where it matters. But he’s a good man who has done horrible things, being a good man won’t bring back those he’s killed or comfort their families. It won’t undo the evil he’s done. Their first conversation about this was inconsequential in the scheme of everything, but the bitter taste of what’s happened lingers in her throat. It’s the first of many, many consequences. She’s signed up to bare them by being his friend and it hasn’t been something she’s regretted.

But being his wife would be something else entirely.

It’s a thought that should make her skin crawl, not send a thrill through her at the idea. It somehow does both and sinks through her like a stone. It’s not just the things he’s done or the good man she knows he is. It’s despite everything he believes, he respects her enough to offer a partnership. Something she’s not sure even existed. Not for someone like her. Not with someone like him.

“I meant blood relatives,” she says, “like our future children, since we thought I might be pregnant and had to leave a few times because I felt sick.”

Surprise cracks his stoic expression even though they both know that’s nothing even remotely possible. Talking about it makes her face heat up again even if it’s silly. Speaking of children distantly and speaking of the chance she’s with child are two different things. Though the distant thought of what they would or would not teach a child, their child, about faith is a more relevant question to where they are.

“Were you happy with the idea of children?” He asks.

Pym swallows tightly. That’s the question, isn’t it? She can agree to the consequences of being his wife, but a child would also bear them. Even more than she would. Everyone bears the consequences of being associated with him willingly. A child wouldn’t have that choice, they would be born into that burden. She looks at their hands and then back at him and she shakes her head.

“It’s too soon,” she says, “I think one day you’ll make a wonderful father but everything’s moving too fast.”

There’s no lie in that. He will be a wonderful father and the idea of having children with him right now feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and hearing water below. There’s a chance of safety, there’s a chance of dying. And the only way to know is to jump.

The hand that tightens on hers reminds her that jumping isn’t something she would do alone.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember,” he says.

“So am I,” she agrees, “but it’s nothing we can’t talk about again.”

“It’s something we needed to talk about,” he agrees.

“Well, we did thanks to you,” she says. She tucks her hair behind her ears, “I may have run at one point,” he doesn’t look surprised, “you came after me—“ then he does, “you don’t seem surprised I would run.”

“I would be surprised if you didn’t,” he says.

She nods and blows her hair out of her eye after it stubbornly falls again. Her scalp feels better but she can tell the sheer length of her hair is going to be a complete nuisance. Which is why she always had it plaited back. She shoves her hair back another time before searching for the bit of leather. The hair falls again and she bites back the urge to curse as she glances around.

She’s not expecting him to touch her.

He doesn’t seem to be expecting it either, as though he’s moved without thinking. His fingertips are feather light against her cheek as he pushes her hair behind her ear. It’s a stupid, simple thing. One she’s done more times than she can count. But it feels different when he touches her. It feels like sparks are dancing across her skin. Like his Fire, but pleasurable. His fingers hesitate for barely a breath before he tucks the hair behind her ear.

“W-why did you do that?” She asks.

“I wanted to,” he says, “is that—“

“Yes it’s alright,” she says quickly, before he can pull his hand from her skin, “I want you to touch me.”

Heat flares in his cheeks and for once she finds the blood draining from hers. Her face doesn’t feel hot, she doesn’t feel nervous, though the declaration should be an embarrassing one. It doesn’t. Her thigh is still warm from his hand, her cheek feels like it’s been set alight in a good way. She wants that feeling to continue. She’s seen Lancelot move, she knows this is where he excels. Even if it’s a very different situation.

It’s exploring.

His fingers linger on her cheekbone and she finds her eyes drawing to his lips. She’s suddenly aware it’s been days since he shaved, though she has no idea why such a thought pops into her head. Maybe because it’s easier to focus on the facets of him than the fact that she feels as though she will crawl out of her skin if he breaks contact with her. Which he does a moment later and she has to press her lips together to stop a sound of protest from escaping.

“Squirrel,” he says softly.

Her eyes fly over to him but he’s asleep, curled into a ball. She looks back over at him and he looks almost apologetic. But she can’t fault him for being logical and thinking continuing what was about to happen in front of him is—not a good idea. Not while they’re prisoners. She runs her tongue over her lip and he looks away, going redder. She catches his hand as he takes it back, but settles for putting it on the bench between them.

“I suppose asking you to blow this up would be a bad idea?” She says with a tight smile. He inclines his head, “we should sneak off when we’re free. Before Guinevere never lets us out of her sight.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” he says.

She nods and before she can think of it being foolish, she gathers up his hand and kisses his knuckle. He looks stunned at her action, too stunned to be embarrassed and moved in a way she wouldn’t have expected from such a simple gesture. But when she thinks about it, it is a similar reaction. Except this time he remembers it.

“That’s the last thing you forgot,” she says, “that’s all of it.”

She’s not expecting him to reciprocate the gesture.

His lips are dry and soft and warm. She’s very aware of the difference in sensation between the scar and the regular skin. She swears even the stained skin feels differently. That’s where his lips brush, against the place where her skin is marked and where it is not. The physical seam of her identities. It’s hard to breathe as the same sparked feeling seems to follow his lips as he looks up at her. She feels a lock of her hair fall from behind her ear.

She lets it stay there.


	31. Chapter 31

He doesn’t sleep for long.

There’s a few hours and only when the throb in his head cannot be hidden or ignored. He’s very aware that the possibility is high he will have to go through it again and he needs to be prepared. A few hours is nothing in their given situation. Jonah and Hector don’t want him dead, at the very least. It’s the minimum that he needs before he’s awake and keeping watch. He’s grateful for the silence and the distance, even if it’s not physical. They are safe and that is what matters most, but he needs the silence. Badly. The throbbing of his head, the past few days, the conversations with everyone, they all tumble through his mind and make it impossible to sort them as they keep happening.

The one his mind keeps returning to is Pym.

It’s foolish, there are far more strategic things he should focus on. If nothing else, he knows that they will eventually figure this out. And if he looks at this problem strategically, Pym’s anger is useful. Being connected to her new powers in such an unstable way can be used. But that’s not what he thinks about. It’s not what his mind keeps going to. The thought passes by and his mind drags to what she said. What they said. His fingers brush the spot where she kissed his knuckles. Her words were powerful but the touch of her lips against his skin was crippling and thrilling in equal measure.

He sorely wishes that he had Arthur here. He may not understand the particulars of Fey courtship, but he’s the only one who Lancelot thinks would understand. It’s an odd thing to have such loyalty to a man-blood, but Arthur has won his all the same. The others wouldn’t understand, not in that way, but Arthur is a romantic. Much as Lancelot would have mocked him for it in another time, now he finds he’s desperate to speak to him.

There is a lot he is confused about.

He has to admit that, if only to himself. When Pym said she didn’t want to be thought of in the same way as Squirrel and then said she wanted him to touch her, he understood she wanted to be touched and thought of as a woman. It’s a bold statement from her, not just for what it entails but for it to be from her at all. Pym doesn’t request things like that, or does so only on rare occasions. When things truly matter. But it then begs the question of whether or not he’s capable of what she’s asking. Being someone like that to her, having that marriage and children—it’s nothing he dreamed of. But so much of his life now are things he didn’t dare dream of. It almost makes sense this would be added to the list. He always knew he would breed, but being a father, that was not something he thought was even a possibility. Is he even capable of doing this?

“Lancelot?”

Hector’s voice comes through the dark and a wave of familiarity washes over him. He’s got no memory of speaking to him in the dark, but he knows that this has happened between them. He can smell Hector through the fabric and he shifts to a different angle. Hector takes an audible breath and Lancelot knows he’s being placed.

“How are you feeling?” Hector asks. Lancelot says nothing. “I wasn’t planning on this,” Hector says, “we weren’t meant to go this way or bring you back so soon,” he hesitates, “You don’t want her in your head.”

“Has she been in yours?” He asks.

“Of course,” Hector says, “several times.”

“Did she hurt you?”

Hector huffs out a breath that tells Lancelot what he needs to know. The slide of her mind against his was nauseating and head splitting. He cannot imagine having it happen again. Much less several times. Lancelot knows their lives have been filled with different kinds of pain, that he is the more bent and broken of them. But the idea that Hector cannot understand the pain he’s been through is one that is quickly vanishing from his head.

“It’s alright,” he says, “you made the best of the situation.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Hector stresses, though the relief in his voice is unmistakable.

“Jonah said this was a kindness,” he says, “I agree.”

Hector exhales and Lancelot wonders at the power that his forgiveness suddenly holds. It’s a strange thing to have people want it, usually he is the one yearning for it. Convinced he will never have it. To be asked for it by someone like Hector, someone who could easily hate him, it makes him believe even more in the bonds of Fey brotherhood.

“But try not to do it again,” he adds.

“I’ll do my best,” Hector says.

Lancelot huffs out a sound and Hector chuckles. It shouldn’t make him feel accomplished to elicit such a response from someone who has drugged him and done the things Hector has. But the familiarity overrides the knowledge of what it should and shouldn’t do. Father said his loyalty was hard won and harder lost. Perhaps it has always been there between Hector and himself. Or perhaps Father was just right to keep him from the Fey and feed into all the things he thought about them. Lancelot isn’t sure anymore.

“Are we close?” He asks.

“Yes,” Hector says, “you’re going to be in chains.”

“Iron?”  
  
“Of course not,” Hector says and Lancelot hears him spit as though he’s said a curse, “we’re Fey.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Lancelot reminds him. He may want to be loyal to Hector and he may not begrudge him what has happened, but even he’s not foolish enough to accept that being Fey means something like Hector is implying. Not like he used to be, “chained and what else?”  
  
“Just chained,” Hector says.

Non iron chains is no problem, if they can be close enough for Pym’s knot magic to work. But they will have to move quickly once it does. He’s seen her create rooms out of trees, but he has no idea if the Hidden have augmented her original powers, disrupted them or anything. He knows that as often as she has the leather in her braid, she holds it with her magic. But that seems to come to if she’s feeling like acknowledging she has any ability with the Hidden or not, rather than any issue with her powers themselves.

“She can’t invade the Queen’s head—or anyone else. They’ll take it as an act of war.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be starting any more of those,” Hector says.

“We’ve started and won them with less,” Lancelot says, “if you want any hope of us working together she needs to not do that,” he gets the sense that the Druid does what she wishes without much of a second thought, “you need to talk to her.”

“Me?” Hector sputters.

“Yes,” he doesn’t like the surprise in Hector’s voice, “Tristain is not going to take well to anyone in her mind.”

“I thought you said the Queen.”

“I said everyone,” Lancelot snaps, “but the Queen won’t work with you if she does it and Tristain will use her Fire. She’s just started making it unaided.”

“Damn,” Hector says, “Damn—I’ll talk to her,” he says, “but I can’t promise she’ll listen to me. This may not work,” he sighs, “will you visit me when I get locked up in your dungeons?”

“Why would you be there?”

“Well I imagine when I defect to your side, they’re going to put me there,” he says, “it would be nice to have some company. We could get to know each other.”

He says it so casually but some part of Lancelot shrieks at the idea of committing such a betrayal. Even as another part desperately hopes that Hector is being serious. That no matter what, he’ll get to keep this scrap of himself. Of the family and life he could have had. It’s selfish and shameful but he latches onto it like a hungry animal, desperate for it. Dependent on it. Hector shifts against the seat and Lancelot lowers his head. He can judge Hector’s approximate position by smell and sound and he presses his hand to the fabric, close to where Hector’s shoulder would be.

“I’ll visit you,” he says quietly.

He wishes there was a way to speak more on the matter, but he knows that even what they’ve said is pushing it. He doesn’t know enough about this Druid to know what she can and cannot do. Or hear or see. He has to operate under the assumption that all is laid bare until proven otherwise. He also has to assume that Hector is compromised, by his own choice or the Druid’s abilities. He knows they need their support, but he does not like the idea of her being around. And with her resemblance to Nimue and Merlin’s broken heart over his daughter, he has a feeling her presence will linger in one way or another.

He pulls his hand back and feels Hector start to follow, as though he will melt through the fabric and join him. But he pulls himself forward and the coldness lingers on Lancelot’s palm as he makes his way to where the others are still sleeping, their breath gently fogging the weak light. He opens the lantern and puts his hand to the flame, changing it to the tempered green of his Fire. It’s not a lot of heat, but it’s enough to make them settle a bit in the cold. They’ve become comfortable with his Fire. As as he. He looks at the Flame that has gone from gold to green and then to Pym. The green light is a reminder of all the ways he’s tainted her so far and a promise of the ways that he will if they continue down this path. He wishes in a cowardly way that this could last long enough for him to make a good, thoughtful decision.

But all too soon the cart stops.

He immediately takes back his Fire and nudges them both awake. When Hector opens the fabric, they are just outside the port. He looks at them all apologetically and fastens the chains on their wrists. They get out. The first thing that Lancelot looks at is Goliath who seems focused on the port. He doesn’t blame him for wanting to get there. The other mount is there as well, though it looks less than thrilled at everything going on. 

Of course his look is nothing compared to Kaze and Gawain.

Lancelot knew he longed for them, but he hadn’t realized how much he needed to see them until they are standing there. Kaze has a look of disinterest in the group that’s very strategic. It doesn’t ease when her eyes flick over them, even though they come back several times. Gawain’s head is bowed but just his presence is enough to unsettle everyone. Lancelot cannot blame them, though by now he simply thinks of this as how Gawain looks. He would have been more jarred by the first sight of him if he hadn’t been focused on getting Pym back.

“As you can see, they’re unharmed,” Medraut says.

“And chained,” Kaze retorts, “give us our people back or this negotiation is over.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Give is the boy back,” Gawain says abruptly.

He doesn’t sound like his usual sighing self. When he raises his eyes, Lancelot can see the anger in them. They seem less human but the voice he speaks with is Gawain’s. The voice that has given orders. Who fights for the living. It’s not one that Lancelot has heard him use in some time.

“That’s—“

“The boy. Now,” he says. Kaze nods, but she glances at them. Pym nods back and he agrees. They are negotiable, but Squirrel needs to be safe. Even he seems to realize it. Lancelot looks to make sure he’s alright but he’s looking at Gawain, “I won’t ask again.”

Medraut hesitates a moment before clapping her hands together.

“Children shouldn’t be in this negotiation anyway,” she says and Lancelot feels sick, unsure if it’s their thought or hers, “Jonah?”

“Go with them,” Lancelot says, “we will see each other soon. Go.”

Squirrel looks as though he’s going to protest or do something foolish but he nods, looking at them desperately. Pym smiles encouragingly, but Lancelot can see her swallowing and the tremble of her skin as he emotions try to pull the Fingers from her. Jonah undoes the boy’s restraints and leads him over to Kaze. She pulls him up easily, settling him on the horse in front of her and Lancelot feels like he can breathe again. She gives them one more look and turns, digging her heels into her horse and breaking for the port.

“So who is representing your Queen?” Medraut asks.

Gawain says nothing.

Instead there’s a slight tremble under his feet and the air becomes heavier with the scent of Gawain’s powers. It’s more rot than summer and Lancelot glances over at Hector to see that he’s alright. He looks slightly nauseated but taking everything in. Lancelot jerks his head towards Goliath. Hector gives him a puzzled look but he grips Jonah’s shoulder and they make their way slowly towards the cart. Medraut is less than patient with the process and walks forward.

“If this negotiation is over—“

There’s a crack in the ground.

Without thinking, Lancelot loops his arms over Pym and pulls her flush against him as the vine walls shoot and twist up. They are all compartmentalized immediately. Lancelot can only hope that Hector and Jonah are near Goliath. He knows Gawain will keep the horse safe. He looks around at the wall and then back to Pym. She looks up at him, the surprise of what’s just happened seems to have stilled the Fingers. She blinks up at him looking very much like herself. The Fingers that spiral out are ones he’s far more used to seeing on her face. Her scent grows stronger as she looks up at him and he hears the click of their chains unlocking.

“Let’s go,” she says but doesn’t move.

He nods, but it’s hard to move his hands from her waist. He takes one in his, keeping her tucked close as the vines shift. Gawain knows enough to realize Lancelot isn’t moving without Goliath and they are given a path to the animal. The cart and it’s horses are nearby, along with Goliath. Pressed to the side are Hector and Jonah.

“Is there anything in the cart that could be used against us?” Pym demands, though her voice is low.

“There wasn’t time.”

“Is the Sky Folk trunk in there? And your things?” She asks Hector. He nods, “both of you get in.”

They climb in and she walks over, scrambling up. Lancelot makes sure the horses are alright before joining her on the front. She takes a deep breath, as though ordering two people into a safer place is something she’s not used to doing. But when he’s next to her, she relaxes slightly and grabs the reins. She grips them before relaxing her hands and nods at him.

“Let’s go home,” she says.


	32. Chapter 32

“Tell me something, when you worked for the Church, did you come back with prisoners and get them involved in new wars they couldn’t afford? Did you go against your orders like that when they sent you out to do one thing?” Guinevere asks. Lancelot clenches his jaw, “no?”

“No.”

Pym winces at the words. She should have known they would find themselves standing there in front of a grumpy, worried Guinevere. She just looks annoyed, she hides it well. But Pym knows her too well now. She can see the shadows under her eyes, the way she holds herself, even the recently bandaged hand that bears the mark of someone else’s work. She wants to ask how she got whatever lays underneath, but she knows calling attention to anything Guinevere perceives as a weakness right now is a bad idea. Especially when she stalks towards them and stands in front of Lancelot, somehow looking up at him and staring him down.

“Then why is there another Ash Fey in my makeshift dungeon? And why are there a bunch of Fey outside the city walls ready to kill us and take this place?!”

“That’s not fair!” Pym objects and tries not to regret it when Guinevere’s attention swings to her.

“Fair?! Fair would be you coming back with the same number of people and goods that you left with!”

“That wasn’t your order—“

“I didn’t think you were stupid enough to need it spelled out!”

“Don’t talk to us like that!”

The hall goes silent and she feels her skin tremble as her Fingers come out in outrage. She knows she shouldn’t talk to Guinevere that way, even after the few days she’s had. But the rebuke slips out. Guinevere raises her eyebrows at her and Pym bites back the urge to run and hide. She knows she’s right. She just has to find the words to say it. Which isn’t easy when Guinevere walks over and stares her down, but Pym forces herself to hold steady.

“We didn’t mean for this to happen. But Hector and Jonah aren’t the problem.”

“The problem is that bitch whose dressed like a raider,” Guinevere says.

“I’m the problem,” Lancelot volunteers.   
  
“Be quiet,” Guinevere shoots at him.

“You’re both the problem!” Pym says, “they’re afraid and hurt by Lancelot and they don’t want to follow a man-blood,” she looks between them, “you’re both the problem so you need to stop blaming each other so we can fix this.”

Either of them could kill her easily. But not as easily as they could before, she thinks. She’s not angry or upset, not enough to bring her Fingers out. She’s exhausted and she feels brittle. Scared. But yelling at them isn’t going to help this situation. She’s sure of that. And they need to move quickly. Once Merlin sees Medraut she knows this is all going to go to hell.

“Where’s Arthur?” Guinevere raises an eyebrow, “you’re both man-bloods but Arthur has the Sword. It’s the one thing that might give us a chance to get their loyalty.”

“Or they could steal it.”

“Then we steal it back,” Pym says, “he needs to go out there with the Sword and show them Nimue chose him. They need a reason.”

Guinevere looks stunned for a moment and Pym braces herself before she laughs loudly.

“Steal it back?” She repeats, “what’s gotten into you? You sound like a proper raider.”

Pym feels her face get hot.

“I don’t like being kidnapped,” she says. Lancelot gives her a pointed look, “I also became a Summoner. The Hidden anointed me,” Guinevere seems surprised, “it’s complicated, we’ll tell you everything later. Right now Arthur needs to show them he has the Sword,” she explains, “oh and they also think we’re married.”

“They what?!”

“Hector assumed and we went along with it, we wanted to ensure we’d be kept together,” Lancelot explains.

Pym’s glad he’s explaining that part of it. The door opens and Arthur comes in quickly. Squirrel and Bors are on his heels. Bors has been crying but rubs furiously at his face. It’s Lancelot who has the most noticeable reaction to him, straightening up and going dead still. As though Bors is going to attack him. Even Bors seems to sense that something is off here. But Squirrel whispers something to him and pushes him forward.

“Glad you’re back,” Arthur says. He glances at Guinevere and to Pym’s surprise she seems to soften slightly before a harder look comes back on her face. Arthur’s caught it though and looks down before looking back up at her.

“They need you to go out and wave your sword so you can legitimize us or something,” Guinevere says, “oh and they think they’re married.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up and his jaw opens.

“Are you?”

Pym looks at Lancelot. They aren’t but it’s not as simple an answer as it was. Saying that they aren’t is the truth but it also feels wrong in light of their conversations. Lancelot manages to look from Bors to her and focus on the conversation at hand. Pym shakes her head quickly and Guinevere gives her a curious look.

“No, we didn’t get married,” she says, “but things are sensitive—Lancelot should be the one to clarify when it comes to Hector.”

Guinevere and Arthur trade a look that Pym doesn’t fully understand. But Arthur nods to them and then gives a small head shake to Guinevere. She rolls her eyes and looks at Lancelot who is still slightly pale and far more focused on Bors and Squirrel. Guinevere raises her eyebrows at the look on his face and looks at Bors who seems equally confused at Lancelot’s reaction to him.

“What about the rest of them?” Arthur asks, “obviously your kin is welcome but the rest of them?”

The words turn over in her head. Kin is welcome. It knots her stomach and sends it to somewhere around her ankles. Kaze may not have seen what she saw when she looked at Medraut’s face. Then again, Nimue was—is—someone she knows as well as herself. Unbidden, the thought of Merlin’s prophecy rises to the top of her head, something she usually pushes away. Taking Camelot, making that golden city, is Medraut there? She almost wants to go to him and demand to know, but the less he knows about the Druid, the better. That prophecy is irrevocably tied to Nimue. They are all tied together.

“They should have a choice,” she says, “but right now they have the same reservations the other Fey had.”

Guinevere makes a noise of disgust but Arthur nods. Pym doesn’t blame her for her frustration. She can’t imagine it’s easy to always have to prove yourself because of the blood in your veins. Blood that in other circumstances entitled you to rule without much of a second thought. People like her and Arthur, who never had much claim to power or saw how it could be taken easily, they are used to having to work for it.

“What do you think?” Guinevere asks, looking at Lancelot.

“They could be useful,” he says.

“I don’t trust them,” Squirrel says.

“Could they be useful?” She asks. Squirrel shrugs.

“Yes,” Pym says, “they could be useful if they’re willing to be loyal,” she thinks of Lancelot being limply loaded into the cart, “I don’t think we should assume they are. And the only thing that might get them to listen is the Sword.”

“Or you.”

“Me?” Pym demands. The three of them trade looks and she knows what they’re thinking, but its completely ludicrous, “no, I was there. They didn’t listen to me. Lancelot wound up drugged and we all wound up chained.”

“Chains you undid,” Guinevere points out, “you said man-bloods were the problem, aren’t you now the highest ranking Fey we have?”

Pym opens and closes her mouth. She can’t properly deny it, because if you look at it a certain way, Guinevere is right. The Sword makes Arthur in charge, but if she laid a claim to it as the Summoner, it wouldn’t be ludicrous. She’s not just one of the few adult Fey here, she is the only one whose become a Summoner. Not that there are any real candidates, but she has still taken on the power and the responsibility. She looks over at Lancelot who inclines his head. Thats not saying much, out of the people in the room she knows Lancelot would listen to her over any other.

“They’re not Sky Folk,” Pym starts. Guinevere’s eyes narrow.

“You’re still the best we have. You and Arthur—“

“I’m going with them,” Lancelot cuts in.

“They have Gawain.”

“I’m going with them,” he repeats.

His voice takes on that tone that it does when he gives an order, one he expects to be followed without questioning. She’s heard it, she’s heard it recently. But it’s a reminder, again, of the man that he was. The things that he did. All in the name of beliefs. Beliefs that are as much a part of him as the marks on his face. They’re altered by their experiences, but still there all the same. She doesn’t know why this is bringing up the old stings of accepting him and being his friend. After everything. Or maybe it’s the idea of what this step would entail.

After everything, can she be the one who helps continue his bloodline?

She doesn’t know why the thought makes her feel nauseous. Or, she wishes she didn’t. She knows why. It’s not just him. Her own family is full of traitors. The main one is locked up after once again proving why he cannot be trusted. She would be continuing that as well. What do you even get when you combine the bloodlines of two traitors? Murderers? Abandoners? Can anything good come from such bad? It’s not even something she should be thinking about. Gawain is holding everyone outside and she can guess well enough that Medraut is not someone who takes kindly to being captured. Or is necessarily being held that well. It’s a tactical maneuver, it has to be.

“I need him there,” she says, interrupting the staring contest Lancelot and Guinevere seem to be having, “he helps. I’m having trouble controlling my emotions with what’s just happened.”

“And he’s not?” Guinevere asks.

“I cried in the Sky People’s village,” Lancelot says simply, “I felt better after that.”

Another look passes between Guinevere and Arthur, though she looks far more surprised and Arthur looks almost proud of him. Pym is definitely surprised he’s admitting it, but she realizes at the same time he’s determined to go with her. When Lancelot is determined, there’s very little he’s not willing to admit or do if it gets him what he wants.

He isn’t like that as a friend, or he isn’t with her. They butt heads enough for her to know there are times when he wishes that she was less stubborn. And she wishes the same for him, but he compromises well enough when they work together. Far better than she thought he would. Her mouth goes dry as she tries to pull her thoughts away from what he would be like as a husband, as a lover—as a father. He’s respected Squirrel’s beliefs, but what would he do with his own children? Their children? He’s said one thing, she doesn’t know why she’s having trouble believing it.

“We can’t leave Gawain out there,” she says abruptly, “Lancelot needs to go either way, they don’t fully understand what he’s capable of, they seemed surprised at how quickly he woke up,” she explains.

“They also locked you up with regular steel,” Arthur says.

“No Fey would lock another up with iron,” Pym says, “that’s not something we do to each other.”  
  
“But drugging and murdering each other is?” Guinevere says.

Pym feels her face get hot. Given everything that’s happened, not locking each other up with iron seems like a foolish thing to care about. She glances at Lancelot, out of all of them he’s the one whose suffered the brunt of it. When she thinks about how many of his scars were dealt by the Fey, it’s a wonder he’s been able to give any of them a chance. She can just press her lips together and nod, embarrassed on behalf of her kind. That return to silence seems to annoy Guinevere anew and she looks between all of them.

“I’ll go myself.”

“No,” Lancelot says flatly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well this isn’t your city, is it?” She says, “and the last I checked, I’m the one you’ve sworn loyalty to,” she moves as she speaks, grabbing her spear and fastening her cloak, “none of you are in the right headspace to do this,” she says, “you’ve wasted enough time arguing amongst yourselves and if you blush like that because I pointed out the hypocrisy of your kind, I don’t know what you’d do in negotiating. You said we needed to surprise them, so be it. Kaze!”

Kaze appears and with her is Tristain. Pym is surprised she feels almost relieved to see her. The Ash Fey looks at both of them silently, which is one of the nicer ways she’s greeted Lancelot. Pym doesn’t miss the thick glove tucked into her belt. Though she’s not sure if that’s the thing keeping her calm or if its pride in her newfound control or if it’s something else.

“We’re going to speak to the Fey outside the walls,” Guinevere says.  
  
“I see you’re alive,” Tristain says and Pym’s not sure which of them she’s talking to. Maybe both.

“We are,” she says, “I see you didn’t burn the place down while we were gone.”  
  
“I pulled the Fire back,” she says and glances at Lancelot, “like we practiced.”

“Good,” Guinevere says, “let’s go,” she glances at them, “Oh and the Fey think they’re married for some reason. So if anyone refers to her as his wife—just go with it.”  
  
“That won’t be difficult,” Kaze says.

“You should pretend to be married to someone else,” Tristain says, “anyone else.”

Pym glances away in the vain hope that they won’t see her getting red. Out of the corner of her eye she sees something gossamer and black, but when she turns it’s Morgana’s veil as she comes fully into view. She glances at them and Pym can hear Merlin behind her. She gives her a desperate look and shakes her head. Morgana falters slightly before she turns.

“Wait, I remember, I didn’t understand that last bit,” she says, turning around, “what does one do with the toad?”

Pym nearly sags in relief.

“Let’s go before anything else happens,” Guinevere says.

“The Sword—“ Arthur starts.

“They’re swearing loyalty to me first,” Guinevere says, “if they can’t do that, then they aren’t welcome and we’ll take Camelot without them,” she looks at Pym, “all of us.”

Pym watches her sweep out, shouting for one of her Raiders to bring her horse around. She knows she should try to argue more for the original plan, but her legs tremble. She knows she’s holding on for the last few days, that whatever’s keeping her upright is going to fail sooner rather than later. She touches Lancelot’s arm and feels oddly disappointed when the same sparking feeling isn’t there. Even if that makes it easier, somehow.

“You should speak to Bors,” she says.

He looks surprised for a moment and then nods.

“Squirrel, lets go get cleaned up,” she says, “Lancelot will find us afterwards.”

Squirrel hesitates a moment before he nods and comes over to her. She settles her hand on his shoulder, telling herself it’s just her mind that he seems taller. She needs to look at his bruises and she knows this is a conversation Lancelot should have with Bors privately. She smiles at Bors who seems to be in shock at the prospect of speaking to Lancelot alone, before he seems to remember something and squares his shoulders.

“We’ll see him in a bit, come on,” she says, guiding Squirrel away.


	33. Chapter 33

Bors is silent as he leads him towards Hector.

He looks afraid and Lancelot cannot blame him. He knows his reaction to seeing him hasn’t exactly been subtle. Lancelot also knows that the fear is at his reaction and not at him. Not like when they first met. Bors has steadily grown braver around him. Lancelot has to keep that in mind. They’ve been through things together, Bors knows who he is and has forgiven him. Learned to trust him.

They all have.

The new Fey have every right to hate him, to try to harm him. But the double edge of this is that in doing so they harm the people he cares most about. He can see the logic in their actions, their desperation to slow him from knowing their location. But taking his memories has hurt Pym. The collateral is unacceptable to him, but how many people has he forced into this position? How many little ones? He glances down at Bors who looks up at him.

“You’re quiet,” he says, realizing he’s half expecting him to start crying, “why?” Bors shrugs, “you know you couldn’t come.”

“I could have helped,” he mumbles and Lancelot realizes that he’s sulking.

“Yes,” he says, trying to choose his words and wishing desperately that someone who finds the right ones was here.

“Just because my dad was human doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”

Lancelot frowns, realizing that is a bigger issue than he thought it was. Bors glances up at him and then quickly looks down. Lancelot cannot tell if he’s embarrassed or just hates that part of himself. What must his kin have told him to get him to keep his mouth shut like that? To hate that part of himself so much? It took a knife and a fire to get Lancelot to feel that way as a boy. But from what he’s seen, Bors doesn’t bears those same physical scars. And the deepest psychological ones were dealt by Lancelot and his kin’s actions. Bors doesn’t seem to hate him the same way.

“Having a human father doesn’t make you weak,” he says, “you’ve saved my life,” he hesitates, “Gawain would have helped as well. But we needed to move quicker than a group would have allowed.”

Bors nods but doesn’t look thrilled. Lancelot bites back this new frustration. He felt helpless enough being there, not being able to be there—that wasn’t something he was willing to entertain. But he realizes he forced it on someone else. Relief hits him when he sees Bedivere in front of the cells. It’s a strange thing to see his kin but a stranger and the man who knows him better than most in the same field of vision, but here they are. They both look at him. Actually, everyone’s eyes find him. Some irrational part of him wants to yell at them to look away, or fade into the confines of his cowl. He does neither, walking forward with the still sulking Bors. Bedivere shoots him a sympathetic look, he’s probably more familiar with Bors’ emotional state.

“Good to see you back,” he says. Lancelot nods, “I was getting our guests settled.”

“Separately?” Lancelot asks.

“For now, it seemed prudent.”

He inclines his head and looks at Hector. Hector seems confused at the exchange, Lancelot cannot tell if the tension is from his situation or from Bedivere’s presence. Bedivere is still tonsured. It takes no great guesswork to figure out he’s a Man of the Cloth, though Lancelot isn’t sure if Hector knows he was a Paladin. Here though the truth is easier.

“This is Father Bedivere,” he says, “we trained together.”

Hector almost looks hurt at the words. Lancelot remembers his mother telling him to bring Hector with him, they clearly began training together. But he’s selfishly glad that Hector was not there when he was training with the Paladins. Hector has his own scars. Lancelot will always mourn the time that was lost to them, the relationship they could have had. But he will always be glad that Hector doesn’t know what it is to crave the flog. He looks down at Bors, glad he’ll never know either.

“This is Bors,” he says, glancing at them, “you remember Jonah? This is Hector, my brother.”

That seems to shock Bors out of his stupor, his head whips between them. Lancelot can’t blame his confusion, they don’t look like kin at first glance. But then, he has to admit that Bors doesn’t bear much of a resemblance to either of them. And the scents—they throw him off. The same way Tristain’s did. But he’s been around her for much longer, her scent is familiar now. Bors is as well, but there’s always been something off about it. Fainter. He knows its his mixed heritage. He sees Hector approach slowly and take a deep breath. He looks at him and gives a small nod. Lancelot doesn’t know what he’s nodding about. Bors doesn’t move back, Lancelot realizes that however shy the boy is, he has no reason to be afraid of Hector. Except by his association with Lancelot.

“Hello,” Hector says.

There’s another beat of silence.

“You’re related to us,” Lancelot says, “our mothers were cousins.”

Bors and Hector both stare at him in shock and Lancelot isn’t sure if he was supposed to find a way to phrase this more delicately. But it also seems foolish to stand there staring at each other trying to discern secrets. As far as he’s seen, Bors has no ability to smell out others. Having him be the only one not aware of what is happening also seems unfair to the boy. He looks over to see Jonah looking surprised along with Bedivere. Lancelot focuses on Bedivere, out of this group he knows him better than anyone else. And what you are actually supposed to do. Bedivere opens and closes his mouth before realizing the floundering Lancelot is doing and comes closer.

“Your mothers knew each other?” He prods.

  
“His mother was like one to me,” Hector says, “she came here. She told us stories of this land and of the people she met,” he looks at Lancelot before focusing on Bors, “we all come from the same place.”

“So we’re family,” Bors says slowly.

“Yes,” they both say at the same time.

“But you don’t share the same mother as him,” he says.

“Our mothers were cousins. Hector and I share a father,” he says, “but we’re all related.”

Bors doesn’t burst into tears or react really much at all. He seems to almost withdraw. Lancelot doesn’t know if it’s his reaction to the news, to the idea of being related to Lancelot, being left behind or some combination of all of those factors. But seeing his reaction feels almost like being struck. Stabbed. Like there’s something in him that’s foreign and sharp and twisting. He looks at Bedivere who seems to understand and touches the boy’s shoulder.

“Come,” he says.

Bors follows.

Lancelot watches silently as Hector lets out a frustrated sigh, though he doesn’t retreat to the back of the cell.

“Must be a shock,” he says, “he’ll come around,”

“I burned his village down. We found his mother on a crucifix,” Lancelot replies, realizing it sounds like a retort, “he doesn’t need to come around,” he glances at him and at Jonah, “you’re comfortable?”

  
“Fine,” Jonah says.

“Good, someone will be back to see you shortly with food,” he says.

Jonah nods and Lancelot glances at Hector who does the same. He doesn’t know why it feels so frustrating to have someone react in such a plausible way. Why it feels hopeless. It shouldn’t. It cannot. These are the first new Fey that they’ve encountered and no-one else has any obligation to forgive him no matter what he does. He’s done things that are unforgivable. Done them in the name of a God whose forgiveness he’s always believed in—but now cannot help but question. Is all of this as futile as it feels? Is there any point to it at all if he’s always stuck as the monster he’s tried to grow past? It feels as though the sins of the past are pulling him down, like he’s back underwater. Drowning.

“Lancelot—Lancelot!”

Arthur pulls him up again.

How, Lancelot doesn’t understand. Arthur should hate him as much as anyone. More, really. Gawain should hate him most of all. But Arthur looks happy to see him, it takes a moment for the smile to falter as he looks at him. A shameful part of him wishes for the cowl to hide his expression or the days when it didn’t matter, but he forces himself to bear the embarrassment and look at Arthur.

“Do you want to go talk somewhere?” Arthur offers.

  
A part of him wants to run to the people who do accept him, but he thinks of the conversation with Pym and the anguish in her eyes in the throne room and instead he nods. Arthur nods in return and leads him away. Lancelot can do no more than follow, but he’s not worried. Not with Arthur. Arthur leads him back out and to the stables. How he knows where to take him, Lancelot cannot say but the familiar ground and smells immediately make him relax. Arthur does a quick sweep of the stalls before coming back.

“So, do you want to start with what just happened or before?”

“Pym and I talked,” he says, “about our feelings.”

Relief and interest go across Arthur’s face. And sympathy. Too much of all of it. There’s just no surprise on it. He’s used to Guinevere telling him how things might look and affect Pym, but the sympathy on Arthur’s face makes him think that the appearance is not the issue. And he knows it in a way he’s not sure anyone else did.

“Did it go well?” Arthur asks.

“I’m not sure,” Lancelot confesses. Arthur winces, “what?”

“Nothing. If you were anyone else, I’d say that meant it didn’t go well. But you’re you, so, I couldn’t say for sure.”

Lancelot thinks of being drugged, of the other Fey’s fear, of Bors’ silence. Of Pym’s struggles during their conversation.

“She was worried I would force my beliefs on her. On any—“ he cuts himself off.

“Children?” Arthur offers. He nods, “would you?” His eyes narrow, “your Faith is a part of you,” Arthur says, his tone miraculously without judgement, “I know you care about us—about her—more than that—“

“I couldn’t Pray until I met her,” he says. Arthur seems shocked, “not like my Brothers did. She knows,” he looks down at his blades. At the crosses that adorn them, “she didn’t have a problem with it.”

“I’m not saying she does. When we were going to rescue you, she was able to talk about your Faith better than most. She knew most of the Prayers,” Arthur explains, “but you can’t fault her for being afraid.”

Lancelot looks at him sharply.

“I’m not saying she’s afraid of you,” Arthur says quickly, “or your Faith. But she might not have made her peace with becoming a part of it. Even through marrying you. You know she sometimes needs time to process things. We all do. I imagine for someone whose been in denial for so long—“

“What do you mean?”

“When we spoke on the ship after you and I first met again, I thought she was in love with you then,” he admits, “and just not ready to talk about it.”

“And me?”

“I wasn’t sure you knew what love was—that kind of love,” he says, “it seemed like something the Paladins would have not wanted for you.”

“They wanted me to breed. Eventually,” Lancelot admits, “the subject came up.”

“You know that’s not what this is, don’t you?” Arthur says, “yes, you would have children but there’s a difference between that and breeding,” Lancelot nods, “so you understand how all that works.”

“I know how to procreate,” he says.

Arthur looks visibly relieved.

“Were you going to—“

“It wasn’t my first choice to explain things but if you had questions I wasn’t going to leave you confused,” Arthur stammers out, “you’ve never courted anyone?” He adds tentatively. Lancelot gives him a sharp look, “well I wasn’t expecting you to know how procreating works.”

“I know the physical aspect.”

Arthur nods.

“Well, that’s something,” he says.

“But not anything else.”

Arthur seems to understand the frustration in his voice but he doesn’t show the pity that Lancelot is expecting.

“Did you have friends with the Paladins?” He asks. Lancelot shakes his head, “but you have them now. We’re friends,” Lancelot nods, “so you can learn the other things.”

“Pym helped,” he says, “I don’t—“

“Don’t let your ego get in the way of asking for help. And especially not for asking her for help. Trust me on this. You don’t want to lie to her. Or steal her sword. It doesn’t end well.”

Lancelot can see the logic in his words and nods grudgingly.

“Besides Pym seems to want you just like you are,” he says, “or she will when she’s worked out that it’s what she wants. You have to be patient,” he almost smiles, “rather, you have to wait. As you did before.”

Lancelot hates that he has a point, he doesn’t want to be patient. Or, rather, he doesn’t want Pym to retreat and be afraid of her feelings about him again. He knows patience is a virtue but it’s never been one he was particularly good at. Arthur seems to know what he’s talking about though. He was right the last time he told Lancelot he needed to wait. But one thing continues to plague him and turn over in his head. Something that he almost dares not give a voice to. Patience hasn’t been one of his virtues, but he refuses to let cowardice cling to him longer.

“Marrying me would ruin her,” he says.

“It would be difficult,” Arthur agrees, “but it wouldn’t ruin either of you. Not to anyone who matters.”

“You sound like her,” Lancelot says, “if not for me, those Fey would be on our side. We could be taking Camelot.”

“You, Guinevere, me—who knows what they’ll think of Morgana or Merlin,” Arthur corrects him, “you said it yourself, you aren’t the whole problem,” he says, “and if I’m sounding like Pym, I think she’d tell you that your friends would rather not have Camelot than lose you.”

“That’s foolish,” he says.

“See that’s the humor that makes us want to keep you around,” Arthur says. Lancelot rolls his eyes, even as he recognizes the joke for what it is, “there are other cities we can take. Other ways we can do this. Besides none of us are interested in Camelot until we can make sure Pym is there too.”

The reminder of the vision is another thing, but it seems to set off a reaction in him. It re-ignites the constant need that seems to exist in him to be around her. His pacing must give him away because Arthur pushes himself up.

“If I’m sounding like Pym—“

“Stop it,” Lancelot tells him before his curiosity gets the better of him, “what?”

“I’d say you should listen to your smart, dashing friend Arthur and come to him whenever you need advice.”

Lancelot shakes his head but doesn’t try to fight the smile at the outlandish statement. After all, he did come to him for advice and it’s not unfathomable that Pym would suggest the same. Still Arthur looks truly proud of himself, though Lancelot isn’t sure what combination put that look on his face.

“Let’s get back before your ego gets too big for the stables,” he says.

“Or your ‘wife’ starts to worry.”

Lancelot tries to glare but even he can’t deny where his feet--and heart--want to go.


	34. Chapter 34

“There, this should help make them go away faster,” Pym says, “do you want to rest?”

“I’m not tired,” Squirrel says, drawing his hands back. For the first time in days, he looks up at her with clear eyes that are far less clouded with pain. The discomfort is there, but he doesn’t seem lost in it, “do you think Bors is happy being part Ash Folk?”

“I don’t know,” Pym admits.

“Do you think he can make Fire?”

“No,” she says, “we’ve seen him around trees, remember? I’ve never seen him make Fey Fire. Have you?”

“No,” Squirrel says, “but his hands turn green.”

Pym is glad she doesn’t have the sleeping drought in her hand when Squirrel points it out. It’s a simple, obvious thing. One they all know about. Bors has a green thumb, a very rare and wonderful ability to help nature grow. Something his mother could do as well. She doesn’t think anyone made the connection that it was a common Ash Folk ability. She looks at Squirrel and he shrugs, kicking out his legs almost petulantly.

“Did you realize he was related to the Ash Folk?” She asks.

“Dunno,” Squirrel says.

“Squirrel—“

“I’d be a good Ash Fey,” Squirrel adds abruptly, “wouldn’t I?”

Pym sighs, realizing that it must be harder on Squirrel than she thought. She has Jonah and Lancelot has more blood relation than he seems to know what to do with. And Squirrel saw the last of his family that, they knew of, being put in the ground. Out of all of them, Squirrel grew up loved. Deeply. She remembers always seeing him and his parents, there was no doubt that he was loved. Not just seen as a useful tool. Or something to be tossed aside. She has no doubt that if Squirrel’s parents were in the situation the Ash Folk were in, they would have smuggled him out like Tristain’s parents tried to do.

“You are a wonderful Sky Fey,” Pym says, “same as me. And I am glad you are,” she continues, “it would be hard being around all the Ash Fey without you,” she smiles, “besides you’re far too funny to be an Ash Fey.”

That seems to cheer him up, though not as much as she wishes it would.

“Besides blood isn’t the only way people are family. Nimue and I were family. Even after we found out we weren’t related. You know that Lancelot thinks of you as family. We both do,” she says, “but it wouldn’t do for you to be his younger relative. That would make being his Knight even more awkward. And you don’t want to make it harder on him, do you?”

“No,” Squirrel says, “it’s hard enough.”

“Exactly. So you have family and an important job to do. It doesn’t matter that we don’t have the same blood in our veins.”

She hears the door open and glances over at Lancelot as he steps inside. Though he looks lost in his thoughts. It’s not a good sign, but at least he’s not with his mask. Their eyes catch each other and he looks away before meeting her gaze and then looking at Squirrel.

“Bedivere is with him,” he says. He focuses on Squirrel, “I need you to go check on him. He listens to you.”

“Wait,” Pym says when Squirrel goes to get up, “Squirrel is your family too.” He looks at her blankly. She gives a nod to show what she needs from him but he ignores it, going to Squirrel.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bors gets to be your cousin,” Squirrel says instantly and Pym wonders again at how he can get Squirrel to speak like that.

“He is,” Lancelot says, “none of which I would have known if not for you,” Squirrel looks down, “you are our family. And we are in your debt.”

“No you’re not,” Squirrel mumbles, sounding remarkably both like the boy he is and someone far beyond his years, “that’s what family does for each other.”

It’s what family is supposed to do for each other, Pym thinks. Then she thinks about the kin she has, even the kin she had before this. Her uncle’s behavior is not the exception. There was a cruelness to them, even before they were desperate for survival. It’s a sharp contrast to Lancelot who has done worse, but seems incapable of that kind of cruelty. It’s a strange thing to pull apart in her head as she watches him clasp Squirrel’s shoulder.

“I’ll go find him,” he says and looks over at her, “I can, right?”

“Of course,” she says, “we can always reapply this, it’s just to help with the bruises.”

Squirrel nods and hops down, landing steadier than she’s seen him do in a while. It doesn’t seem like much progress to him but she notes it and is glad. He walks off to find Bors and she’s glad that he can do that without her having to worry about him being kidnapped, hurt or something else. They’re safe. It’s relieving. Though that relief eases somewhat when she sees Lancelot focused intently on her. Some cowardly part wants to come up with an excuse to end the conversation, to have some time to sort out her thoughts and feelings, but she shoves that part aside. She knows that it’s just a cowards move. Thinking and torturing herself isn’t going to help.

“I’m sorry the reaction wasn’t what you were hoping for,” she says.

“I would be afraid too,” he says, “if I were in his position.”

“That’s not really fair to either of you,” she sighs. He almost softens, “after everything—“

“I killed his family and took his home,” he points out. She winces, “nothing will change that. It’s a sin I will deal with for the rest of my life,” she glances away, knowing he’s right, “you struggle with it too.”

“Sometimes,” she admits, “mostly I struggle with what I think I should feel. Not what I actually feel,” she says. She looks at him, “I know you understand that.”

He nods.

“But I wouldn’t struggle if I didn’t feel so nice around you,” she continues, “if I didn’t like being around you. With Nimue I always knew that what people said was foolish and narrow minded. But Nimue—“

“Didn’t murder so many,” Lancelot offers.

“I can’t really say that anymore,” Pym admits, thinking of all the Paladins. They deserved to die, but if she goes down that road and looks at Lancelot’s life it’s easy to say that the Fey he killed deserved it as well, “I’m sorry, I wish this wasn’t so complicated.”

“It’s not complicated because of you,” he says.

She sighs because she knows that’s true, but at the same time she cannot help but feel as though if she could let go of what she thinks she should be feeling and focus on what she does feel, things would be easier. But then she thinks of her village and she knows that it’s not as simple as that. She doesn’t know why this feels like a further betrayal. No, she thinks, she does. She knows. All those people, all those girls, who wanted a life and a marriage and little ones. And they’re charred bones in the dirt if they’re lucky. What right does she have to change her mind? What right does she have to wed him, to have those things. To give them to him? How much of her distaste for marriage is the sting of hearing those things about herself?

“I know that being with me scares you,” he says. Pym catches her lower lip but doesn’t deny what he’s saying, “I know it makes you feel guilty. Like being my friend did,” he says, “all Fey are brothers was a difficult thing for you to follow with the one who burned down your village and tried to kill your friend. All Fey are brothers is not the same as you being my wife.”

Hearing the words feels not unlike being slapped. But it also feels like being hugged. It’s a strange thing to feel. She half expects someone to interrupt but oddly she finds that isn’t what she wants. Though in situations like this, she knows that it usually is. She doesn’t know why she feels ready to hear those words from him, what things have happened that make her feel alright, but she feels that way all the same.

“It’s not,” she agrees.

“If you need time, if you need me to leave you alone—“

“No!” She cuts him off before he can continue. His lips quirk up and she sees relief before he shoves the look aside, “I mean, I don’t want you to go away,” she tries, aiming for something that sounds far more reasonable, “it was easier to pretend—before—that my feelings only affected me. Even if that wasn’t true. This is something else.”

He nods.

“Though that’s strange in itself. The people who are getting married aren’t usually the ones who discuss it,” she says, “their parents do.”

“We’re both orphans,” he points out, “and you don’t seem interested in the usual marriage,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, “what do you want?”

It’s a simple question but it rocks her. Not because she isn’t expecting it, but because it’s still strange to hear on his lips. On anyone’s lips. Of all the ways she could have seen this occurring, being brought up, being asked so directly what she wanted was never one of them. Then again, neither was he. He looks at her calmly, like this isn’t some sort of test or trick. And she knows that it isn’t. Of all the things that have turned out to be, he’s actually the farthest thing from it.

“You know this is all complicated because I do care about you,” she blurts out instead, “very much. And because if I marry you, am I saying what you did is alright? The Sky Folk used to say I shouldn’t be married, that any children would bear the shame of angering the Hidden.”

“Is that true?”

“How should I know?” She says. He gives her a plain look and she sighs, “I can’t just talk to them.”

“You probably could,” he points out, “if you learn to control it.”

“That—“ she cuts herself off, “it doesn’t matter what they say. Besides, being married was never something I wanted,” she says, though they both know she has before, “and you changed that. But how we’ve been acting isn’t how a Fey couple usually does. Not with the Sky Folk,” she explains quickly, “we aren’t separate—I don’t serve you,” he nods, “I don’t want that to change. Do you?”

“No,” he says and his brows draw together, “why don’t you believe me?”

She feels her face get hot. There’s no sense in denying it.

“Because I haven’t met a man who doesn’t,” she admits finally, “and I see you get frustrated sometimes when people don’t listen to you.”

“I do,” he says, “because they used to. It was simpler back then,” he admits, “but I wasn’t a husband back then. There’s no wishing for a wife to obey me,” she glances down, “I am working on not wishing for the others to obey me,” he adds.  
  
“I know,” she says, “and there are times when obviously listening to you is the smart thing to do,” she adds quickly.

“Not that it’s ever stopped you from doing something else,” he points out.

“That’s only when you suggest foolish things,” she replies.

He purses his lips together and she bites on the smile that threatens her.

“A wise Fey once told me that if I glared, no-one would want to talk to me,” he says.

Pym feels her face grow hot, thought whether it’s at the compliment of her wisdom or the fact that he still remembers, she cannot say. It’s a strange thing to know she could ask for anything and he would probably do it. The dizziness of it feels no different from the Hidden. Actually as she stares at him, it does feel that way. She sees concern on his face and she knows that her Fingers are trembling underneath her skin. She opens her mouth to explain and he reaches out, taking her hand. The contact calms her immediately, she can feel them trembling under her skin but they don’t come out.

“Did I upset you?”  
  
“No!” She says, “I—I don’t know how to control this,” she admits, “I can’t always depend on you to calm them,” he gives her a look, “we both know that we can’t stay glued to each other all day.”

“You can learn.”

“How?” She says, “I’m not like you. I’ve never felt like this or had something like this to control,” she presses her lips together and pulls her hand back, her stomach sinking when she feels the Fingers appear on her skin and her familiar knot magic is at her fingertips, even though there’s nothing that needs to be tied, “we can’t even talk about this without them coming out.”

“We could keep talking.”

It’s an offer on her behalf. Lancelot is better about talking, but its not his most comfortable way of communicating. She doesn’t think it ever really will be. He’s spent too long holding back his words and learning to communicate in another way. And even if that was not the case, all they are doing is talking in circles. They want the same things, they care about each other, she knows the idea of life without him isn’t one she wants to think about. And in the same breath she has to admit the idea of being with someone like that is also one she’s not sure how to think about. She’s not sure either of them knows how to think about it. If she had any hope of the Fingers going, the feeling in the pit of her stomach tells her that’s a fool’s hope.

“I don’t think talking is going to help,” she admits finally, “we want the same things. We care about each other. You’ve turned everything upside down,” she shakes her head, “I suppose we’ve done that for each other.”

“You’re still afraid.”

“But not as afraid as I was,” she says, “and not of you,” she bites her lower lip, “are you? Afraid?”

He shakes his head.

“You said you didn’t want what another Fey—a proper Fey—could give you,” he says, “you’ve never lied to me. I believe you. I know you need time,” he looks at her in a way that feels like he sees beyond her skin and into her core, “I’m not going anywhere.”

She half wants to scold him for the promise he’s making so brashly. Of anyone who could go, she would have chosen him. Though between her absence of the prophecy and the sickness and the Hidden that feel as though they may drive her mad, she has to admit she’s equally likely to be the one that goes first. The thought makes her stomach twist. Especially the part where one of them is left behind.

All she can do is place her hand back in his and focus on that until the Fingers finally give way.

There’s a knock on the door and Lancelot looks at her before helping her to her feet. Their hands remain joined until right before they open the door, when they release their grip. Immediately Pym feels her skin stir and fights against it, especially when she sees Lancelot flex his fingers. On the other side of the door, Kaze looks at both of them.

“Good to see you back alive,” she says, “Guinevere’s on her way back, Gawain’s vines went down.”

Pym feels her heart jump and looks to see if either of them is panicking before remembering who they are. Neither looks thrilled at the thought. Kaze nods towards the throne room and turns. Pym grips her hands together before looking at him. He looks at her steadily and she tries to take some comfort in that before he offers her his hand. It’s easy to say that it’s because they need to pretend.

But there’s no pretending in how much better she feels when their hands are together.


	35. Chapter 35

The shadows in their faces have an eerie resemblance that Lancelot finds more off putting than the smell.

He can pick out the similarities there, but Druids don’t smell the same as Fey, it’s more muddied. Less sharp. He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to focus on it for long and can focus on the bright smell of Pym’s scent. Hers is sharp and overpowering thanks to her haywire emotions. The Fingers loop over her face as she looks at the exchange between relatives. Though by all logic, they should have expected this. Merlin should have expected this.

It’s laughable that any of them thought 700 years of debauchery would have only yielded one daughter.

Merlin’s joy is heavily bittersweet and deeply troubling. His fingers still shake as he touches her but Medraut takes every touch with reverence. With joy. Lancelot doesn’t believe her for a moment but Merlin does. He has to give her some measure of credit. This is a nerve that is exposed for many of them. It’s a baited trap and one that he would have laid himself to lure them in. They are all orphans and childless parents. He’s irrationally and selfishly glad when he looks at Bors and Squirrel and sees the open revulsion on their faces. Even though when Bors looks over and catches his eye, he immediately looks away. Bedivere is with them and though his face is neutral, he seems far more interested in something else. He follows his line of sight to Pym’s white knuckled grip on his hand.

Lancelot, belatedly, remembers he forgot to tell him about his pretend marriage. 

There’s nothing fake about how she grips his hand, trying to steady herself while railing against her own emotions. Every time her fingers tighten, it sets off something in him. Something like a very fine blade. It hurts worse than it has any right to. Pym is strong, stronger than she usually gives herself credit for, but this is a new thing and one she is ill prepared for. He had the luxury of realizing that the Paladins were wrong about many things before he began unleashing Fire. Nothing has happened to make Pym truly change her mind about the Hidden that now whisper around her. There is nothing he can say. Even if he was good at such things. For all that she stresses words and speaking, none of them truly seem to be working at the moment. The only thing that seems to help is physical contact and even that seems to work best on her terms.

When he brushes his thumb across her knuckle the effect is immediate and it seems to startle her.

It reminds him of Moon Wings.

He will always be surprised at how easily they chaffed and how quickly they burned. Even the children he tried to spare largely seemed not to make it out unscathed. Moon Wing silk is incredibly strong but the Folk themselves were not. He’s never been good with handling delicate things. There have been precious few in his life. Everything truly delicate has been surrounded by a hard shell of ornamental gold or thick glass, preserved against time and clumsy hands. It took years to even be able to handle those protective casings, forget the Relics inside.

“What happened?” He asks Morgana.

“He stopped, turned his head and took off,” she mutters back, “I tried to stop him but he’s fast,” she says, “once he got there, he was thrilled.”

“He cried,” Tristain supplies, “She acted shocked. I couldn’t stop him without catching Gawain’s vines.”

Lancelot isn’t surprised to hear Tristain immediately understand that the Druid isn’t good news. He looks around and sees Gawain standing off to the side. His head is lowered and he looks infuriated still. Lancelot has rarely seen that look on his face. Especially not since he passed. His eyes don’t move from the exchange of Druids hugging and Lancelot spares a moment of annoyance for how quickly this one has managed to get to right where she wants to be.

“How are they related?”

“She’s his daughter,” Morgana says, doing nothing to disguise the disgust in her voice.

“So Nimue’s half sister,” Pym says tightly. She’s guessed it but hearing it from someone else seems to make things worse.

“We should—“ He begins.

“We’re staying,” Pym shoots back.

“Then you need to calm down,” he mutters back, “focus on me.”

Tristain and Morgana trade looks and he does his best to ignore it, looking only at Pym. They also are not aware of the fake marriage they’ve come up with. It’s something to worry about at another time, they’re both smart enough to go along with it if asked. Keeping Pym’s gaze, he draws in a deeper than usual breath and she catches up to the rhythm, imitating it. Her Fingers slowly lose their sharp edges, thought they don’t vanish entirely. She looks far less mad though, if only to a passing glance. He can tell she is still angry, even without registering the feeling of the indents her nails have left on his skin. Pym seems to have realized it though and looks down at their hands, almost going to pull away from his grip.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Don’t say that,” she mutters back, “I hurt you, no matter how little it registers.”

He gets the feeling that she isn’t just talking about holding his hand too tightly. But he ignores the way it makes his heart stumble and focuses instead on the Druids. He repeats Arthur’s words back to himself.

“You didn’t,” he promises. He glances at her again, “you did nothing wrong.”

He cannot begrudge her the concerns she has. The fact that this is something they can speak about at all is nothing short of miraculous. His eyes drag over to Bors again, or in his general area. He knows staring at the boy wouldn’t be taken well. While Bors being his relative is important, the mixed heritage that’s always been there makes him think of the future. Even he knows it’s relatively rare to mix different kinds of Folk. It’s almost taboo among the Fey. Or it was. But Bors is a living example of it. Of everything that they will ultimately achieve in this new world.

“It can’t be this simple,” Pym says, focused still on the Druids, “the things she did—“

“She did little, the others were trying to protect me,” he starts. She glares at the Druids and then at him, he knows it would be easier to agree but he can’t do that just to placate her. Not like this, “she’s dangerous. Keeping her out there would be a mistake.”

“So we keep her close instead?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. He doesn’t want to keep her close, but he can already see her embedding herself in Merlin’s skin. It’s not an accident that silvery vines have emerged across her flesh. As he looks more, he thinks the silver embroidery on the underside of her cloak isn’t a mistake either.

“What did Guinevere say?” He asks, turning to Tristain.

“She reached out to Merlin before we got very far,” she says, folding her arms.

“Did she recognize her?”

“No,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean anything. She could have joined with Cumber after she left.”

If that’s the case Medraut could have been working for Cumber and the Fey at the same time. Or bringing them together. For anyone else that would seem noble, but after feeling her in his head Lancelot takes no comfort in whatever she’s trying to do. It’s too calculated. He’s glad that the others seem to think that. Or at least Morgana and Tristain do. Guinevere is harder to decipher. He doesn’t know why it fees like a crack is appearing, but he resolves that it’s not going to grow deeper. Not because of a Druid who happens to be related to Merlin. Pym takes a shuddering breath as she watches the exchange. He sees Morgana move slightly towards Tristain.

“You need a bath,” Tristain says abruptly.

“I what?” Pym says.

“A bath. You smell like death,” she glances up at Lancelot with familiar disdain, “not all of us are masochists.”

While he wants to object, he realizes that first off she hasn’t bathed in days. And second that everyone else has cleaned up but her. More importantly than either of those things, he wants her away from the exchange happening. Medraut seems able to dig up any control she has. Probably because of her resemblance to Nimue—both physically and magically. He think the Hidden may also be playing a role, he cannot imagine that the Hidden are not interested in another Druid. If they are looking for the strongest carrier, he can see how the new Druid may be an appealing choice.

“Oh, I didn’t realize—“ she starts and looks up at him, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, glancing at Tristain, “you don’t smell.”

“Still, she’s probably right,” Pym says.

Lancelot nods and gives her hand a final squeeze. Over her shoulder, Tristain shoots Morgana a look and Morgana rolls her eyes before both fix their faces calmly to escort Pym off. The air changes and he knows that it’s not an accident that no-one reacts to them walking off. He flexes his hand and wonders at how it feels noticeably cold without hers in it. Without so much as a word, he watches as Merin and Medraut walk off together in conversation. Guinevere swears and leaves shortly after them, dragging Arthur with her. Lancelot wastes no time in following them.

“Is she a Raider or with the Ice King?”

“She claims she’s with the Fey,” Guinevere says, not stopping as they walk into a different room. Lancelot can smell something different about this room and she closes the door, leaving the three of them alone, “you didn’t mention she was his daughter.”

“We weren’t sure,” Lancelot says.

“Pym looked like a ghost.”

He nods, unable to respond. Guinevere lets out a breath and folds her arms. For once she doesn’t look at the map. She looks out the window. Lancelot supposes that makes sense, there’s no need to worry about the future enemies when there are enemies right in your own gates.

“Merlin’s not strong enough to see what’s going on,” Guinevere says, “if she’s been at Cumber’s court, she might be on their side.”

“The other Fey are afraid,” Lancelot says, “Hector and Jonah are.”

“We’re stretched thin as it is,” Guinevere says. Arthur nods, “Cumber is trying to target the ships coming in and our supplies, the Church is focusing on the roads. Merlin’s magic is compromised—“

“How do we know that?” Lancelot interrupts.

“His magic is tied to the Sword,” Arthur says, “and I don’t know how to command it.”

It’s something Lancelot has thought might be the case, but hearing it is worse. Especially if Medraut is position to be a temptation for so many. But also uniquely valuable. They’ll need a miracle to take Camelot, but God is not the only one capable of such things. Though His are the miracles Lancelot knows to deal with. The King of Lies also gives them. Usually looking like they cost nothing when they cost everything.

“We shouldn’t trust her,” Lancelot says. He knows it might come off as hypocritical, considering not very long ago he was the one standing there being told not to be judged, “her intentions are not good and she’s too well positioned.”

“He’s right,” Arthur says, “if she’s got the Fey Queen’s blood—“

“She doesn’t. She’s a Druid,” Guinevere points out, “she’s got no claim to the Fey.”

“The same could be said for either of you,” Lancelot admits.

“Then Pym is our best chance.”

Lancelot knows that it’s not that simple. He’s not sure Guinevere or Arthur are aware of the issues going on. Pym is still learning to be comfortable with her own authority—she’s still learning to be comfortable with her own feelings and wants. The Hidden have set off something in her head that has everything being felt more keenly. If not for the Hidden, he’s not sure she would have brought up her feelings about them as a couple.

“They’ll view her as compromised because of her association with me,” he says. Guinevere and Arthur trade looks, “most of the Fey there are refugees from homes I helped burn down,” he looks at them, “no matter what I’ve done, it won’t bring thaeir loved ones back.”

“And they think you’re married,” Guinevere says. He nods, “you two have a knack for making things far more complicated than they need to be—just by breathing around each other.”

He cannot argue with that and he sees Arthur try to hide a chuckle with a poorly done cough.

Neither of them suggests that there is an easy way to solve that problem. Lancelot has sworn his loyalty to Guinevere and the Fey, but as long as Pym wants him that will be where his ultimate loyalty lies. He has faith that she wants him still, that she holds that they are family even while they figure out the rest of what is happening between them.

“Right now Pym needs to learn to control her powers,” he says, “I’m going to be held against her, but she cannot hide how that makes her feel.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Guinevere says.

“She needs to,” Lancelot replies, “the other Fey have a right to their anger. But I think Medraut will prey on it,” Guinevere blows out a frustrated breath, “Pym cannot negotiate with a spear like you can.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Guinevere mutters, “what do you suggest?”

Lancelot doesn’t have an answer for that. Much as he wishes that he did. He wishes he knew how to help her. In a more effective way than just standing there and holding her hand. But the Hidden seem to tie up with her emotions. Pym is upset a lot right now. Near death experiences, nearly losing Squirrel, deciding if she wants to be with him—none of it seems to be anything she is prepared to deal with and the Hidden seem to prey upon it.

“I don’t know,” he admits. Guinevere hangs her head but nods, “she’s still afraid of them.”

Guinevere swears but doesn’t object. Lancelot thinks everyone understands that fear. They all have different ways of dealing with it. Some bury it, some confront it, some pretend it isn’t happening. Some have ways of coping that are not good and some have ways of it that are better. The Hidden seem to dig it out of Pym no matter how she tries to bury it.

“Reuniting with Jonah hasn’t helped,” he admits.

“There’s a lot that hasn’t helped,” Guinevere says, “there’s nothing that you can think of that would help?” Lancelot shakes his head, “what about in your Faith?”

He thinks of the burning bodies and the ways that most are cleansed. He thinks of Pym’s conviction that he won’t respect her, that he’ll force his faith on their children. He looks at Guinevere who seems to almost be pleading.

“No,” he says sharply.

“Damn,” she says, “we’re going to have to find a way. We might all depend on it.”

“We could not work with them,” He offers, “send them to Avalon.”

“We may not have much of a chance of securing Camelot and taking on the Church and Cumber without more fighters,” Arthur voices, “and we can’t guarantee Merlin won’t go with his daughter.”

Lancelot wishes that he could object but he knows Arthur has a point. Arthur understands these things probably better than anyone but Merlin’s made no secret of his desire to die to be with Nimue. Lancelot hates this. He hates the idea that they could be closer to their goals, to this new world they’re trying to build, and it could have the seeds of it’s own destruction sewn right in it. It’s a sickening thought. He looks between them and realizes thee aren’t any answers here right now.

“Excuse me,” he says abruptly.

“Where are you—“ Guinevere starts and stops when Arthur nudges her.

Lancelot pays them no heed as he heads back to the room, already knowing that’s where Pym will be. He barely glances over when Arthur falls into step besides him.

“You know that taking about you two isn’t what’s upsetting her, right?” He says.

“It’s complicated,” Lancelot says. He sees Arthur’s face fall, “we’re waiting for her to sort her feelings out,” he says finally.

Relief shows on Arthur’s face.

“Oh good,” he says, “not good that you have to wait, but good you aren’t waiting for all of—“ Lancelot stops dead and Arthur nearly collides with him, “this,” he finishes, “are you alright?”  
  
“She’s cleaning up and I need to speak to her alone.”

“I was just checking on you, I’m not going to follow you into seeing Pym in a bath,” Arthur says. Lancelot nods, “not that you should either, you’re not—“

“We shouldn’t talk about this here,” Lancelot cuts in. He doesn’t know where Medraut is. Arthur seems to realize the same and nods, “no-one is seeing her like that,” Lancelot adds.

“You’re going to eventually,” Arthur points out. Lancelot looks at him blankly, “you said you knew how this worked,” Arthur hisses to him.

“I—“ Lancelot starts and cuts himself off. Reminding himself that is a discussion for another time, “I do,” he says firmly, “but now isn’t the time.”

“Right,” Arthur says but doesn’t look fully convinced.

Lancelot turns and walks away. He understands the mechanics of it, he’s bathed with Pym before but they kept their eyes firmly away from one another. He doesn’t know why the idea of her seeing him bare is something that makes him freeze or the idea of seeing her like that is a strange one. But it feels very similar to when he woke up and she was on the other side of a curtain and he had no idea what to do with that information. Things are different. And he cannot afford to turn into Arthur, dreaming about romantic things like honor and love when there is a present danger. He raps on the door.

“Come in,” she says and he comes inside.

She sits on the bed, looking lost in thought and miserable at the same time. She’s been half braiding and undoing the same strands for a while now, if the curled edges of her hair are any indication, but it doesn’t seem to bring her any comfort. After a final attempt, she lets out a frustrated sigh and drags her fingers through her hair, freeing the tresses. Her hair curls slightly from the touch while it was damp, but the fire catches it and makes him think of the painting again.

“I hate this,” she mutters. He looks at her, “I hate feeling so out of control. It’s like I don’t even know where I start. It just keeps getting worse.”

“You’ll learn,” he says.

“I don’t know if I can,” she admits, “I’m not like Nimue or Medraut. I don’t know how to have this. It feels like I’m not me unless I try very hard.”

Lancelot wishes that it didn’t sound familiar. He’s spent most of his life not feeling like himself unless he tries very hard. Unless he pushes everything aside and focuses. Even then, for so long it’s felt like something forbidden. Something he should know better than to do.

Guinevere’s words come back to him.

It’s not something he’s wanted to think about.

He can honestly say this is not something that has even crossed his mind in a forbidden way. Not like those moments when he realizes that she’s beautiful or he asks for help. It’s crossed her mind and after the things she knows he’s done, he can’t blame her for thinking it might lurk there. But he knows deep down she doesn’t think it, that she knows he respects her too much to even consider such a thing.

“I have an idea,” he admits. She whips around so quickly, he nearly gets hit with her hair and looks up at him desperately, “there’s a rite that might help you push them away or quiet them.”

“Why do you sound nervous?” She asks.

“it’s a Catholic rite. Father Bedivere would have to do it,” he admits, “I don’t want you to think that this is something I wanted for you.”

“It’s not burning me, is it?” She asks, trying to smile but not really succeeding. He fights the urge to shudder at the thought and shakes his head.

“He would Baptize you,” he says. She looks confused for a moment before thinking of what he’s saying. He’s told her before, but not often. It takes her a moment to think of the ritual but when she does, she seems less horrified than he was anticipating, “it may help you push them back. Until you can control your connection, but ignoring it—“

“I don’t want to risk them going to Medraut,” she says.

He nods.

“But I would rather them go to her than risk you being hurt more,” he admits.

She exhales shakily.

“What does that mean?”

“It frees you of original sin,” he says, “I’d hope it would help you get yourself back.”

She looks nervous but nods again, the fact that she doesn’t immediately dismiss the idea and trusts him to listen is humbling. It’s not something he would suggest lightly, it’s not something he wants to suggest at all. But he can feel her desperation growing. And her frustration. And her despair. He has every faith that she can do this, but he also knows that until she believes it, he cannot tell her otherwise.

“Would Bedivere do it?” She asks, “knowing I cannot fully join your Faith?”

“We can speak to him,” he says, “but yes, I think he would,” he tells her, “he’s the only one I would trust.”

“But not yourself?”

He shakes his head. She looks at him curiously and reaches for his hand, joining their fingers together. He still believes, he’s separating out what is his belief and what is the poisonous teaching that was pushed upon him. But he cannot claim to be a Man of the Cloth. No matter the brand lurking in his hair. He cannot profess that his dedication to the Church is all encompassing in that way. Bedivere was right, he cannot keep the vows he made. Not now. Not now that he’s sitting next to her with their hands joined together. She must know it too. She closes her eyes and lowers her head before looking up at him.

“It’s worth a conversation, at least,” she says.

“I’ll talk to him—“

“I want to talk to Morgana first,” she cuts in, “then Bedivere. But I need to talk to Morgana.”

He nods.

“Anything you want.”


	36. Chapter 36

“Why?”

Pym is irrationally grateful that the first question isn’t if she’s lost her mind. Though she’s sure that would be a fair question if she had asked it. Even thought it hasn’t come out of her mouth, Morgana’s face is struggling to be neutral.

“I need help,” Pym admits, “with the Hidden. I can’t do this. Not like this.”

“You’re scared,” Morgana states, “Nimue was too. She learned not to be—“

“Nimue didn’t have a chance not to be,” Pym says.

Morgana winces and Pym tastes bitterness. It’s shocking how quickly everything happened. How much happened so fast. Nimue handled it, but Pym knows she was scared. Morgana knows it too. Being scared isn’t the problem Pym has. She’s scared, but she also knows deep down there’s something more happening. She cannot tread water over the Hidden for the rest of her life. But she’s not sure how she’s supposed to co-exist with them. That’s something she knows Morgana understands. But the frustration on Morgana’s face gives her pause.

“Is he making you do this?”

“No! Of course not,” Pym says.

“Are you certain? You know more about the Faith than most Fey.”

“That’s because I was trying to get him to talk!” Pym says, “his Faith was the only thing he seemed comfortable talking about. He needed the practice,” she remarks, “but he only knows about it as a—“

“Man?” Morgana finishes. Pym nods, feeling her face get hot, “I didn’t want to become a nun,” Morgana points out, “the Faith considers both of us to be traitors,” she sighs, “for different reasons.”

Pym nods, she doesn’t even entertain the suggestion that Lancelot is trying to convert her. If Morgana saw his face when he suggested this, she would know that was the farthest thing from his mind. She knows that he would respect her decision no matter what she did. She knows that she needs to do something or she’s going to lose her mind. Or worse. But she’s not sure if this is the way. She’s not sure if she’s come to Morgana to talk her out of it or to find some flaw or just to test herself. She’s sure of very few things these days.

“You shouldn’t do this for him—for anyone,” Morgana says, “and you shouldn’t be forced into it. Even in the way that I was,” something dark flickers across her face, “or Lancelot was.”

“I know,” she says.

“I had an Abbess, her name was Nora. She was the one who started rescuing Fey by bringing them to the convent,” Morgana says, “she hated the Church, she said they had become corrupted. That God and His Son would be ashamed,” she folds her arms, “she was proud of her Faith. She said that was why she helped the Fey, not in spite of it but because that was what her Faith told her to do. She was good and kind,” Morgana admits, her tone somehow fond and grading, “she made us proud to be what we were.”

“She sounds wonderful,” Pym says.

“She was,” Morgana’s face hardens, “Iris saw she was burned like the rest of of my sisters.”

Pym swallows tightly.

She remembers the blood spilling from Iris’s neck and the blank look as she fell. No, not blank. She was afraid. Pym thinks of all the nuns and how they must have died. She wonders if any of them took comfort in their Faith or if it was even possible to do so when fires were licking at you. She doesn’t understand how so many people could die trapped in their homes like that. All in the name of a God that is supposed to be something very different. She cannot fathom the one Lancelot has told her about being alright with any of this. It seems far more like what the Hidden do. She looks down at her hands, wondering how she seems to have gotten burns from each side of this conflict.

“I’m sorry.”  
  
Morgana nods.

“Not to put more pressure on you, but you know that you’re supposed to be a Summoner. The Summoner. Won’t being Baptized go against that?”

“I can’t be a Summoner like this,” Pym says. Morgana looks at her curiously, “I can’t. I feel like—“ she doesn’t have the words for anyone. She doesn’t know how to describe herself.

“Like it’s not just you in there?”

She doesn’t know how to describe herself to anyone but Morgana. It clicks as she’s looking at her, remembering that it’s not just Morgana in front of her. Even past the hovering between this world and the next, there’s something else in her. She understands in a way that Pym thinks no-one else might be able to. Morgana’s face softens and something close to pity shows on her face before her features seem to close off. It’s eerily similar to how Lancelot gets sometimes. Given how they both functioned, she knows it shouldn’t surprise her. But sometimes it catches her off guard all the same.

“Baptizing you won’t change that,” Morgana says.

“I know,” Pym agrees, “but it would help.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can’t explain,” Pym says, “but if it will help push them back—“

“You don’t know that it will,” Morgana points out, “it could force this on someone else. They could kill you. You have no idea if this is going to do anything, let alone anything good.”

Pym wishes that did not make so much sense. For some reason her mind wanders back to meeting the Red Spear, back to that first day on the battlefield when Arthur had tried to stop her and she’d gone into the tent to find Lancelot there. So many times she hadn’t known if something was going to be a good idea, if it was going to work at all. Or if she was going to wind up somewhere so much worse.

But then she thinks about watching Gawain sail away. She thinks about that moment in the tent where she thought about staying with all the others who were captured. She thinks about watching Nimue sink below the waves. Things can be worse, but if you’re moving at least you’re doing something. The idea of sitting and just hoping things will get better makes her feel like she might be sick.

“It feels like I’m losing against them,” she admits quietly, “I’d rather risk it than let myself die in my own head. I know that’s selfish—“

“There’s nothing wrong with you wanting to survive,” Morgana cuts in, “you chose to be here. You chose to live. You could have gone to Avalon and you said you wanted to be here and go on adventures. Not waste away in your own head,” Morgana shudders before fixing her again with her gaze, “did you try reaching out to Nimue?”

“Nimue’s doing enough,” Pym says quickly.

“You’re her best friend, she would want to protect you,” Morgana argues.

Pym shakes her head, pressing her lips together. She can’t add to the burden Nimue has. She has no idea if what she’s about to do will add to it, but at least then she’ll be trying rather than burdening Nimue. Nimue has so many people to protect. Pym refuses to add to that. She can figure this out. Morgana gives a frustrated sigh.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Morgan admits, “I’m not going to tell you to go be a part of the Church instead of going to your friend or because of some boy—“  
  
“Lancelot isn’t making me do this.”

“So why aren’t you discussing it with him?”

“Because—“

“Because?”

“Because I told him I didn’t believe him when he said he wouldn’t force me to be a good Christian wife,” Pym says.

Morgana looks truly surprised and heartbreakingly like the girl that rode with Nimue. Some mix of disgust and frustration clouds her before she tries to pull it back. But whether that’s because it’s Lancelot or she’s just got no patience for things like this, Pym isn’t sure.

“Why were you two talking about you being his wife?” She asks. Pym glances away, head building in her cheeks. Morgana rolls her eyes, “so this is about that.”

“No,” Pym says, “we talked. Then I kept losing control. Then I asked him for help and then he talked to Arthur and Guinevere and had the idea,” Morgana looks skeptical, “he said he would respect me.”

“You know if you marry him he doesn’t have to do anything,” she points out, “even if Guinevere gave women property rights—“

“I don’t have any property,” Pym mutters, somehow the wound of her missing dowery still stings. Morgana looks at her for a moment and then laughs loudly, “that doesn’t matter—“

“You think Guinevere wouldn’t give you anything you asked for?” Morgana says, “any land you wanted?” Pym frowns, “did you not consider that? You could have every man here tripping over themselves to marry you for her favor or the wealth she’d give you. You don’t have to marry him.”

  
“Morgana—“

“You don’t,” Morgana repeats, “you could marry anyone if you’re worried about your choices. Even if you two had fucked, you could have enough to buy anyone’s silence.”

“We haven’t,” Pym starts.

“Oh well that’s easier then. Not that it matters to me but if you wanted to marry,” she continues.

“Well I—“

  
“Just obviously not to him,” she adds, sounding relived, “can you imagine?” Pym feels her throat tighten, “well I’m glad he’s not forcing you or anything but—“ Morgana trails off, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Pym says quickly, trying to get herself back under control but there’s a whisper under her skin, “oh no.”

Morgana’s face falls and Pym knows that she didn’t mean to upset her. Nothing she said was that bad. But the conversation has still managed to do it anyway. She can feel that the Fingers aren’t the angry ones, but they’re close. She feels them trembling across her skin, as though they too cannot make up their mind if they are upset or not. It’s the worst feeling, to not know how you feel or to be afraid of yourself. She’s always been afraid of the Hidden and now it’s impossible to tell what is the Hidden and what is her sometimes.

“Does that always happen now when you’re upset?” Pym nods, “I only saw it with Nimue when she used the sword or she was really angry.”

“Nimue was made for this,” Pym says, “she was always meant to be a Summoner, she always had the Hidden’s favor,” she desperately wishes that Nimue was here, even more than usual. She would be able to figure this out, “I’m not like that.”

“You could be,” Morgana says, “if—“

“I need help,” Pym cuts in. Morgana presses her lips together, “I can’t be any kind of leader or learn if there’s nothing of me left at the end of this.”

Pym doesn’t ask if this is selfish, she knows the answer. If she was a better, selfless person perhaps she would be able to sacrifice herself for this cause. To let the Hidden continue this way. But she isn’t. She doesn’t want to bring about Merlin’s prophecy. She doesn’t want to be the girl on the docks watching everyone sail away. She does not want this. She wants to be herself.

“This isn’t going to change that,” Morgana says.

“But it might give me a chance,” Pym says.

Morgana sighs.

  
“Wanting to be saved is the only reason to have a Baptism,” she says. Pym looks at her, “let’s just hope the Hidden don’t do anything to you because of it. If you go through with it,” Pym tries to calm her heart, “but if this is because of a boy—“

“It’s not,” Pym repeats.

“Good.”

As she walks off, Pym hates that it doesn’t feel like the whole truth. She’s not doing this for him. But Lancelot has a unique ability to make her want to live. To be more. To believe she is more. And she’s not sure she would be considering this if he hadn’t managed that. It’s not just him, it’s him and Guinevere and Kaze and Dof and even Aaron—there are a lot of people who make her feel like enough. Maybe it’s just because she spends the most time with Lancelot. Or maybe because it feels like he needs her too. Or maybe—

“Pym?”

She looks up from her thoughts to see Bedivere waiting for her. He looks puzzled, but he’s clearly looking for her. She doubts Lancelot has said anything except she wants to talk to him.

“How are Hector and Jonah?” She asks.

“Alright,” he says, “I’m not sure they need to be locked up like this, but I suppose until we get it sorted out there’s a sense to it,” she nods, “how are you?”

“Did Lancelot tell you?” She asks.

“No,” Bedivere says, “just that you might want to speak to me,” he hesitates for a moment, “he seemed—concerned.”

Pym almost smiles at the notion of what a concerned Lancelot must look like to Bedivere. Their closeness has grown but she doubts that it’s easy to read his emotions. Concerned Lancelot also tends to hyper focus and be driven by one thought. He doesn’t seem to particularly care about what happens until the task he’s been set is done. Even when—or especially when—he is the one setting the task.

“I wanted to talk to you about being Baptized,” she admits.

Whatever Bedivere is expecting, that was not it. He seems truly shocked but he quickly pushes it aside. It’s like watching Lancelot put his emotions away, though Bedivere isn’t as good at it. She can still see the surprise on his face, but she appreciates him trying to hide it.

“I became a Summoner, a proper one,” she says, “but this doesn’t feel like me. It feels like something else is in there. Lancelot said that this might help.”

“Baptism is about saving your soul,” Bedivere says, “it’s also committing to our Faith. Are you sure that’s something you want?”

“I don’t want to give up everything,” she says, “but from what you and Lancelot have said, we believe a lot of the same things. When it matters,” she admits, “but I don’t want to commit to your Church.”

“I don’t think either of us are committed to that either,” Bedivere says.

“Have you ever done this with a Fey?” She asks tentatively.

“No,” Bedivere admits, “the only ones I know of would be Lancelot and Tristain. And those are complicated,” he looks at her, “you would be the first.”

It almost makes her chuckle. She’s never been the first in many things. She’s always been more content to hang back. Even if some part of her has always yearned for it. She knows that Tristain and Lancelot came to this under very different circumstances. Morgana as well. But neither of them has judged her for it or called her mad. She doesn’t know if Trstain will but she has a feeling it will be because she is angry about something else.

“Would you do it?” Pym asks.

“If it was what you wanted, if you wanted to be saved,” he says. Pym catches her lip in her teeth and Bedivere goes paler, “I suppose there’s no good way of saying that,” she shakes her head, “but yes, if that was what you wanted.”

“Even if the situation is more complicated?”

He nods.

“I think we can say that part is on us,” he says, “do you have questions about what would happen?”

“Lancelot’s told me,” Pym admits.

“Would you have a problem with your children knowing about the Faith or being baptized?” He asks, “or would your husband—“ Pym feels the heat creep up her face and Bedivere trails off, clearing his throat, “right, I suppose that’s a foolish question.”

“No,” she says, “I wouldn’t have a problem with them knowing about his Faith,” she looks down at her fingers, “my problem is with the Church.”

“I’m afraid they’re too linked,” Bedivere says, “but perhaps that can change.”

Pym hopes so.

They all do. 


	37. Chapter 37

It’s a thick, tense sort of silence as they appraise each other. Lancelot stands between them wondering if the other Fey would think it’s madness that he’s in charge of making sure they all come out of this alive. To have caused so much death, it’s a strange change of pace.

“How did he survive?” Tristain asks.

“He pushed me off a cliff,” Hector says, drawing her attention. She arches an eyebrow, “I hid after that.”

“You must be good at hiding.”

Hector shrugs but neither of them looks calmer around the other. Both look like they don’t trust each other. Lancelot solely wishes that disarming them was as easily done as it usually is. But Hector seems to be the most skilled with his Fire while Tristain seems to have the strongest flame. It will be difficult if either of them lose control. Hector’s eyes flick to her fingertips and her marks in a way that is no accident and Tristain bristles.

“We’re both newer to using the Fire,” Lancelot cuts in. Hector looks at him, “I’ve had more opportunity to practice.”

“He defected earlier,” Tristain remarks.

Lancelot is half surprised that she doesn’t outright call him a traitor. He wonders what brought her to that. Admittedly, saying he defected is not much better. But it’s still a kinder term than he’s used. Hector has yet to judge him for defecting, he seems to accept that Tristain is not with the Church either.

“Do you know of any others?” Hector asks.

“No,” Tristain says, “I didn’t know anyone was protected like we were.”

Its a strange thing to hear. It is the truth, but he hasn’t heard it framed that way. He’s tried to understand the logic of his own parents actions, but somewhere deep down he thinks of Tristain’s parents and knows their actions make more sense. He thinks of his own actions with Squirrel. He was only being asked to watch and he was unable to do that. He had no way of knowing how that was something that he had carried from his life before.

He was unable to watch them hurt Hector, even when they were both boys.

“And he doesn’t remember,” Tristain adds and Lancelot is almost relieved at the disgust in her voice.

“I would have remembered another Ash Fey,” Lancelot says, “my nose was not blocked by a mask.”

Tristain’s eyes narrow at the insult but Hector lets out a soft snort of laughter, looking between them with a measure of amusement. Lancelot doesn’t see what’s amusing about this and from the look of it, neither does Tristain. It occurs to Lancelot that he’s seen Tristain and Bors laugh about the same number of times. That if you switched Tristain’s anger and Bors’ fear, there are more similarities than differences.

“So it’s us then,” Hector says, “the last of the Ash Folk. For now.”

“Until one of you has children,” Tristain remarks.

“Or you.”

She snorts and looks away, seeming oddly uncomfortable.

“I’m the closest to having children,” Lancelot says before anyone can say something. Or Tristain can bring up the lie. That isn’t one. Not unless Hector is hiding someone. He doesn’t contradict it but nods.

“You’re the oldest,” he adds.

Tristain’s sour look is back though Lancelot knows he has no control over that. But anything that puts him as above Tristain in any way is something she doesn’t like. Even being the oldest. Or the tallest. Probably even having the longest cloak. It’s a strange thing to be the oldest, he’s used to being surrounded by senior leaders of the Paladins, the ones who were allowed to interact with him. Peers like Bedivere were farther in between, especially the ones who would act like he was more than a tool or a weapon.

He smells Pym before she arrives, but as their eyes all move towards where she’s coming he realizes he’s not the only one. He doesn’t know why this of all things makes his guts twist. Having more Ash Fey is useful. Seeing them identify Pym is also useful. But it makes his gut knot anyway, like he’s swallowed something solid and heavy. The feeling only eases when she appears with Bedivere. His friend’s appearance reminds him this is not the first time he’s felt this feeling where Pym and the others are concerned.

“Oh, there you are,” she says, taking in the sight of the Ash Fey all staring at her, “it’s strange seeing all of you in one place.”

“I guess that’s something we’ll have to get used to,” Hector says, “since we’ve all been playing cat and mouse for so long.”

“I want to talk to him,” Tristain declares, fixing Pym with a hard look, “so you and Lancelot are going to have to go if he’s the one you’re looking for.”

Pym immediately goes red and Lancelot looks at Tristain who raises her chin. She gets along better with Pym than with most of them, but Hector isn’t allowed to roam freely. He supposes that Tristain understands that too. If they had a cell when he had arrived, he may have found himself there as well. Lancelot glances at Bedivere who steps forward with a quick nod to him.

“I was hoping to speak to Jonah,” he says, “I can keep an eye on them.”

Tristain makes a noise of displeasure but there’s little to be done about it. Hector smiles and Lancelot wonders where he’s gotten his sense of humor. He doesn’t seem bothered by being in the cell or by Tristain’s reaction or any of this. Lancelot tries not to hope too much that it’s because they’ve been reunited, but it’s a hard thing to stamp out entirely. Especially when Hector gives him a fond look and nods towards Pym, as though he understands something he cannot possibly comprehend. Lancelot pushes the guilt away, he’ll tell Hector soon. For now he has to trust Bedivere.

  
“Let’s go,” he says to Pym, “hopefully Hector will be out soon.”

“Like that will stop you two from sneaking off,” Tristain says.

“I suppose we won’t be the only Ash Fey for very long,” Hector adds.

  
Lancelot ignores them both and walks with Pym away from the cells.

She’s quiet for a moment until they’re out of earshot.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” She offers.

Lancelot looks at her, realizing he shouldn’t be surprised it’s obvious. He watches her cheeks turn pink. She looks embarrassed and it occurs to him that she may think what’s wrong is their previous conversation. He doesn’t want her to think that, though if it was that he imagines he would tell her anyway.

“I don’t like that they can identify your scent,” he admits, “I didn’t like that Bedivere was so close to you when I didn’t know he was still a Priest.”

Pym looks up at him and then catches her lip between her teeth, looking somehow sympathetic and amused. Lancelot frowns as she tries to keep the smile that he can see threatening her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why?”

“I think—“ she pushes her hair back behind her ears, “I think you might be jealous,” he stares at her, “it’s alright,” she says quickly, “I felt odd about how you got on with Kaze and sometimes Guinevere and Tristain—“

“Guinevere?”

She blushes.

“You just seemed to understand each other in a way I didn’t, because you were all fighters,” she admits.

It’s a strange thing to hear because it’s nothing that’s ever crossed his mind. He understands that Guinevere, Kaze and Tristain are all desirable and they understand each other in a physical way, but what Pym is saying is something different. He’s never felt about them the way he feels about Pym. The sight of Guinevere flirting with Arthur in her own brash way doesn’t make him feel sick.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks.

“Because it’s ridiculous,” she says, “I had nothing to be jealous of. Just like you don’t have anything to be jealous of either.”

“Does it still make you uncomfortable?” He asks.

“Not anymore,” she says, “it makes me wish I could understand you like that,” she adds.

“You do.”

She looks at him skeptically.

He can’t pretend her skepticism doesn’t sting, though he knows he has to remember that there are things going on in her head he cannot understand. For all that they have been on opposite sides of the conflict, his side was the aggressor. Any one of their near misses could have resulted in her death. And he never would have been wiser for how his life could have changed because of her. He also knows she’s been betrayed by the men in her life in ways that he doesn’t understand. He’s never had his heart broken. And in the scheme of what Father was doing, being asked to breed was not the same as being told he would be sold off.

But it does sting that she seems to have trouble believing him.

“Just because we don’t spar doesn’t mean we don’t understand each other,” he says, “I don’t hold hands with any of them.”

  
That makes her smile and he wonders how it feels like a victory.

“I think you might lose one if you tried that,” she remarks.

He doubts Kaze is the only one whose taken someone’s hand, just the one who has the evidence running around. And he thinks for others, they would like to hold their hands very much. If given the opportunity. But the desire to do anything of that sort with them hasn’t stirred in him the way it did with Pym. It seems almost instinctual at this point. It’s something he doesn’t have an issue with doing, even when it feels as though he wants to crawl out of his skin with everything else. Maybe that is why he finds it so hard that others are aware of her scent. Greed is a sin he knows he shouldn’t partake in. As is coveting another. But he finds himself tempted and it doesn’t feel wicked. Not like he thinks it should.

  
“You don’t believe me,” he observes.

“It’s not that,” Pym says quickly, “there’s a difference between how I touch you and how they do when you’re sparring,” she frowns, “it’s a back and forth. It’s like you’re speaking without words,” she must see the look on his face because she tucks her hair back again, “i know you said you would teach me. But the way you all hit—“ her brows draw together, “it’s a different language.”

He doesn’t know what possesses him to take her hand before she can drop it down to her side. The action catches her off guard and he sees her breath catch. He keeps his fingers open, holding the back of her hand in his palm and looking at her. After a moment of stillness she nods, keeping her hand in his. He’s touched her hands purposefully many times, for many reasons. It always seems to have an immediate effect on her. He realized that back in the ship, the first time he initiated that kind of contact with her.

He trails his fingers up her palm, past the welted scar to the dip of the heel of her hand. Her fingers curl reflexively and her breath hitches but she keeps her hand in his, unfurling her fingers with the barest brush of his. Her hands have always been calloused but he can see the markings on them are now as strange as his. Their hands are all stained fingertips and oddly shaped scars. Hers are starburst from his Fire, his are lacework from the iron nets. There’s a symmetry to them, they compliment each other. He draws his fingers down from her thumb to her wrist and her breath catches.

“What—“

“It’s not always the most obvious strike that’s the deadliest,” he says, “or the most forceful. It’s precision. Knowing where to touch.”

Her eyes blink as though they’re trying to focus on what he’s saying, but he can smell the slight alteration in her scent as she looks up at him. And the way her lips start to flush, not as badly as her face. But they do change a bit. When she presses them together, he drags his eyes back to hers, but he’s aware they look different when she parts her lips again. Her eyes as well, the pupils narrowing her irises as she looks up at him. It’s one of those odd moments that seems to stretch on impossibly long, but he dares not break it.

Pym rips away from him and they both snap to see Squirrel there, looking equal parts outraged and hurt.

“You’re getting baptized?!”


	38. Chapter 38

  
  
To say Squirrel is upset is hugely misleading.

He looks devastated.

He’s still covered in herbs and wrapped in bandages, he looks almost frail. But Pym knows it’s not that simple. He’s not frail, he’s hurt. He’s scared. He’s upset. She can’t blame him for any of those feelings. She knows deep down it must hurt that they have all found relatives but he hasn’t. No matter her feelings on Jonah, she knows she’s lucky to have found him alive. They somehow manage to get him to a quieter place where he immediately stares at them both in outrage.

“That’s not fair,” he says finally, “I want to be baptized too.”

“No,” Lancelot says immediately. Squirrel goes red, “you’re too young.”

“Babies get baptized,” he argues.

“You’re too old for that.”

“Well which is it?” He demands, “Am I too young or too old?” Lancelot’s jaw tightens and Squirrel jerks his chin up, “you just don’t want me to be baptized.”

“Why do you want to be?” Pym asks.

Squirrel looks at her like he’s forgotten she’s there. She feels Lancelot focus on her as well, but she keeps her focus on Squirrel. He stares at her, still red in the face and she holds his gaze before he can round on Lancelot again. This topic is a sensitive one, more than any other she can think of. She knows that for her the choice is clear, but she cannot see Squirrel turning to the Church just by choice. Just because Lancelot is in it. Squirrel is a little older than he was when the Church took him. When they took that choice from him.

And though he will not say it, she knows that Lancelot has given up many things so that more little ones will not have to go through what he did.

“It’s not fair!” Squirrel erupts suddenly, looking close to tears, “you get to be an Ash Folk, you get to be baptized, it’s not fair,” Squirrel says, “and don’t say it’s because I’m a Knight. It’s not.”

Pym falters for a moment.

She had no idea that her stained fingertips would be a problem. Or that he would be jealous of her closeness to Lancelot. He looks at it with the eyes of a child who has seen too much, but she can tell how this has been wearing on him. She feels like a fool for not seeing it before. For getting as swept up in this as she has, though she’s tried to keep herself focused on the few Fey that are left.

“You’re right, it’s not,” Lancelot says. Pym looks at him. Squirrel rubs his eye, looking between them, “we all care about each other.”

  
“So why can’t I be like you two?” Squirrel questions, sounding almost despondent, “if we all care about each other?”

Pym looks over at Lancelot who stares back, equally at a loss for what to tell him. Pym knows they are on the cusp of something, something that she’s pushed back for a long time and something that Lancelot didn’t have the experience to name. Everyone has been understanding or they’ve made assumptions, but directly being asked is rare. She supposes that it was inevitable it would come from Squirrel. They have their peers but he is the one they spend the most time with. And the one that observes people better than most. Even back in the village, Squirrel was the one who knew things he shouldn’t. Popped up in places he wasn’t supposed to be. She should have expected that would get worse as he got older or was given more of a chance to roam.

“Lancelot and I are older. We look at the world differently—,” Pym says. Squirrel wrinkles up his face, “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s true. We’re peers, we are in a similar place in our lives. Our feelings towards each other are different.”

“I don’t understand,” Squirrel says.

She supposes there’s no tiptoeing around it. She looks at Lancelot who nods, seeming to give her permission for whatever she says next.

“We feel about each other the way your parents felt about each other,” she says.

For a moment it feels like a relief to say the words, until Squirrel’s face crumples.

“So you’re going to make your own family.”

“Of course not,” Pym says quickly, “we are a family.”

“We are,” Lancelot repeats, “Pym and I being together wouldn’t change that.”

“There are things about us being together that we need to figure out,” Pym says, “that and everything else—it’s not something I can figure out like this. I can barely control myself with the Hidden in my head like they are.”

“I could help,” Squirrel argues.

“I know you could,” Pym says, “but you have adventures to go on. I—“ she stops herself, feeling a tightness in her throat, “this is something I need to do. Does that make sense?”

Squirrel nods slowly.

“When we go back to the Island, we’ll go to the temple,” Lancelot says. Pym looks at him, “we’ll need to go back for Tristain,” he adds, “Pym and I snuck off.”

“Which we didn’t realize upset you,” she adds.

Squirrel looks very hard at the ground, looking less angry but the redness gets worse. Pym feels like she could kick herself for not realizing the effect this was having on him. Lancelot looks at her with a blank expression and she realizes that neither of them must have considered this. She’s seen Fey couples sneaking off together, sending younger siblings to be watched by older friends. But this situation isn’t that. There’s something much more devastating about what happened and their charge of Squirrel is a bit harder to define.

“We are a family,” Pym continues, “that’s the most important thing. But the difference is that we’ve chosen each other to be that. It’s something you are too young to be interested in.”

“No I’m not!” Squirrel says instantly. Lancelot gives him a skeptical look.

“Do you care for someone like that?” Pym asks. Squirrel looks at them blankly and Pym feels irrationally relieved at his confusion.

“Like what?”

“Like someone—“

“Like someone you are in love with,” Lancelot says.

Pym looks over at him, surprised he’s said the words that they keep stumbling around so easily. His eyes drag over to hers and she sees his face start to warm. She feels it in her own, as though her embarrassment matches his. And at the same time, she feels a smile tugging at her lips. Which is completely inappropriate for the situation with Squirrel so upset. She pushes her hair behind her ears and focuses back on the boy. Squirrel looks between them for another round and then his face screws up.

“Ew!” He exclaims, with all the disgust that only a child can have towards the prospect of romance, “are you two kissing?”  
  
“No,” Pym says quickly, then realizes how that sounds, “not yet.”

“Are you going to?”

“That’s—“

“Probably,” Lancelot says. Pym whips towards him and he looks at her reaction with confusion, “I mean—“

“You are too young to be worrying about what Lancelot and I are doing,” Pym says firmly. She sees Lancelot still looking confused, “but yes, that’s going to be involved.”

“Can he do that without setting things on Fire?” Squirrel asks, “like you?”

“Yes,” Lancelot says, “my Fire isn’t tied to my emotions anymore.”

“But that’s not emotional,” Squirrel says.

“That is for Lancelot and I to figure out,” Pym cuts in, fighting to keep the shrill edge out of her voice. Both of them look at her, “if we need help we will ask for it. But this is something between us. It doesn’t make us less of a family,” she continues, “and if we get married and have little ones, that won’t change us being a family. It would just mean our family has gotten bigger.”

Squirrel is quiet for a moment and Pym wonders if her cheeks are ever going to become less red or if she’s stuck like this for the rest of her life. It might be the latter. Fire isn’t something she considered when they talked about this side of things. But she knows how skilled Lancelot has become after months of intense training. It’s another thing they will have to figure out as they go forward. Right now her focus is on Squirrel who seems to be less upset, but still not thrilled with what he’s being told. He scuffs his foot against the stone and still seems upset.

“If you wish to be baptized, we can speak about that. But it’s not an impulsive decision,” Lancelot says, “You need to learn.”

  
“How did she learn?” He asks.

“When we were sneaking off,” he says. Squirrel frowns, “I can teach you,” Lancelot says.

“It’s not fair,” Squirrel mumbles again, as though it will change things.  
  
“How do we make it fair?” Pym asks. Squirrel shrugs, “well, one day we’ll be watching you fall for someone and we’ll think it’s not fair,” she says, “because that means you’ll be thinking about your own little ones,” Squirrel wrinkles up his face, “and marrying someone. And kissing them—“

“Stop it,” he whines, “no I won’t, I’ll be going off on adventures with Bors,” he argues.

“You could have both,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel blows out a breath but seems to calm down even more. Pym can’t blame him for his frustration, but she hopes that one day he can understand. Though she cannot think of a boy his age—or any little one his age—who would. But perhaps that is the beauty of childhood, things like this are usually beyond comprehension. He glances up at them before scuffing his foot again, his face turning red.

“But we’re still family? Even though we’re not related?”

“Of course we’re family,” Pym says, “blood isn’t the only thing that makes people family. Nothing you could say would change what we are to each other.”

“She’s right,” Lancelot says. Squirrel glances up at him and something quiet seems to pass between them before Squirrel nods, finally seeming to believe them. Pym almost sighs in relief but forces herself to just keep smiling at him.

“Alright,” Squirrel says. He stands there silently, with his head bowed and when his shoulders start to shake, she’s worried he’s crying until she realizes it’s something else. He looks up at them, still laughing, “I wanted to see how long you’d wait before sending me off to,” he deepens his voice until it sounds like what she thinks is Lancelot, “‘check on Bors.’”

“Go,” Lancelot says, jerking his head to the door.

She feels Lancelot’s fingers brush against her palm and Squirrel’s eyes dart there as well. He wrinkles up his nose at the sight and turns, hurrying off. Pym listens until his feet are gone before she dares look over at Lancelot. Immediately her face starts to warm up and she pushes her hair back, fighting not to get sucked into his gaze. He looks at her curiously and she feels as though she’s in Squirrel’s shoes.

  
“It’s odd to hear you say we’re in love with each other,” she admits.

“Aren’t we?” He says. She opens and closes her mouth. His expression starts to go blank and she realizes how it must seems given their earlier conversations.

“Yes!” She says, surprised at the tone of her voice. Which only makes her face grow warmer, “it’s just—odd to hear it named like that.”

“Like what?” He asks.

Though he’s confused, she becomes aware of everything very suddenly. How close they’re standing, the touch of their hands together. All the things that were happening out there. But they seem to be happening faster, as though naming the feeling has kickstarted something. Like when a pot begins to boil and suddenly the bubbles are there.

“So definitively,” she says.

“Was I wrong?”

“N-no,” she says stumbling over the words, “we’re in love,” she echoes. Much to her embarrassment, she feels the Hidden rise up in response, the Fingers fanning out across her skin. Lancelot doesn’t run from the response, he looks at her curiously, “I haven’t said that before,” she admits, “I never had the chance.”

His fingertips reach up and she nods her consent as he brushes against the blue-green that scrolls across her skin. His fingertips are feather light, but she’s hyperaware of everything. Her skin feels cold in the wake of it. He follow the lines past her jaw and down her pulse point. She feels the Fingers tremble in the wake of his touch. When he touches her shoulder, she steps forward into the embrace, resting her forehead against his chest. She doesn’t know if it’s his smell or his touch or just him, but as she stands there she feels calmness settle over her. Her racing heart slows and though she still feels the warmth in her face, it has less to do with her embarrassment and far more to do with how warm he naturally runs.

“You’re trembling,” he says.

“It’s adrenaline,” she dismisses. She feels him go to move and tightens her fingers on his shirt, “can we stay like this? Just for a moment.”

His arms go back around her and she somehow finds it easier to breathe. When he speaks she can feel it where she’s pressed against him.

“For as long as you want,” he vows.


	39. Chapter 39

Gawain keeps staring at him.

Lancelot tries to pretend it’s not happening but it’s unavoidable. Gawain does not look away. It’s much closer to the way he stared at him in the mill than it is how he stared at him in the tent. There is no kindness in the look. Not even curiosity. He’s just fixed by it. He has to fight the urge to shift his weight uncomfortably. He has to remind himself that Gawain is his friend, that he’s much less likely to try and kill him than most. But the open anger is difficult to stomach.

“Did you do something?” Arthur asks, glancing over at Gawain. Lancelot shrugs. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, “is this about—“

“Probably,” Lancelot says.

Arthur lets out a sigh that has Lancelot dragging his gaze towards him. Arthur flushes faintly and looks down before meeting Lancelot’s eyes.

“I may have thought he was in love with Nimue. We—argued before figuring it out,” Lancelot looks at him curiously, “he wasn’t,” Arthur adds, “but I don’t think he was thrilled with the prospect of us.”

Lancelot frowns. He doesn’t think Gawain is in love with Pym. But if he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of Nimue being with someone like Arthur, he can’t imagine that he’s thrilled with the idea of someone like him being there either. Arthur is a good man. Lancelot is trying to be, but his crimes are far worse than the things that Arthur has done.

“I think he’s taken it upon himself to stand in for their fathers,” Arthur offers.

“Shouldn’t that be Jonah?”

“Probably,” Arthur says, “though Guinevere might disagree,” he glances over at the Red Spear whose idly turning a knife point down into the arm of the chair she’s sitting on, “not sure who you want to negotiate with if it came to that.”

“Negotiate?”

“For a proper marriage,” Arthur says, “if you wanted to do it that way—“ he adds quickly.

Lancelot thinks about Pym’s words when it came to her dowery, how that was such a sore spot for her. She seemed particularly embarrassed by it, amidst all the other things she found disdainful and embarrassing about the prospect of an arranged marriage. Even now if she’s changed her mind on marriage, the has to do with getting to choose someone. Not have the choice be made for her. He honestly hasn’t been thinking about things like a dowery or negotiations. But he imagines that if they hadn’t crossed Pym’s mind, they will soon enough.

He’s been so intent on playing by the Fey rules in so many aspects of his life, figuring out where to bend them is a strange thing.

“Does the bridgroom usually do those?” He asks.

“Not without family,” Arthur says, “it’s usually between the parents of the couple. Or their guardians,” he says.

“We have a shortage of those,” Lancelot remarks.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Arthur says.

There’s a kindness in his voice that catches Lancelot off guard, though he knows there’s no reason for it to. Arthur would stand for him if he asked, probably even if he didn’t. But at the moment, his concern is less about the surrogate family that has been created and more about how Gawain found out. Rumors travel fast here. They travel fast everywhere. But he has a lot of trouble thinking that Squirrel has started any of them or that he’s told Gawain. The possibility his mind goes to is one that makes him feel almost sick, but it’s one he needs to consider.

As far as he’s concerned, the sooner they get the Hidden and their connection with Pym under some kind of control, the better they all will be. Regardless of whether or not she winds up baptized because of it.

“If I survive I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

“What are you surviving?” Pym asks.

“Gawain,” Arthur offers. Pym looks over at him. Gawain continues to glare.

“What’s wrong with him?” She questions, looking at Lancelot.

He fights not to squirm under her gaze.

“I think the Hidden may have told him,” he says finally.

He’s not sure himself if he’s talking about their feelings, what they told Squirrel or the prospect of her being baptized. He’s not sure if there is a clear answer. It may be all of those things. He’d like to think he’s more familiar than most with what annoys the Green Knight. And threats to those he holds dear are definitely among that. Gawain’s no fool, but there’s a difference between the rumors and growing closeness and them outright saying that they are in love with each other. He glances back at Pym, though she looks frustrated the Fingers aren’t trembling under her skin.

“That’s ridiculous,” she says, “and not for them to do. Come on” she tells him, grabbing his hand.

“What?”

“He’s not just going to sit there and glare at you when these are my decisions,” she says, “we’re going to talk to him.”

Lancelot almost object sto the ‘we’ part of things but they are already moving over to where he is. Talking to Gawain is difficult under the best of circumstances, but they have managed. Pym is annoyed though and he’s not sure he trusts himself to be the kind of peacekeeper the situation might require. Gawain tracks them perfectly so that when they arrive where he is, he’s facing them and looking right at them without any kind of adjustment. The look is more unsettling up close. It’s one of those times that Gawain looks alarmingly human in a very un-human form.

“Can we talk to you. Privately,” Pym says and though there is meant to be a question, her tone makes it so there isn’t one. Gawain inclines his head and motions for her to lead. She leads them out and into one of the smaller chapels in the building, something that isn’t lost on any of them, “what’s wrong?” She asks and it sounds more like there’s room for an answer.

“What are you doing?” Gawain asks.

“With what?”

“With him.”

The directness catches him off guard, as does the way he says it. Lancelot knows he should expect it to some level, but he’s surprised at how this disapproval stings. Though he’s sure that when Gawain asked for the help of a great fighter, it was to beat the Church. Not covert people to it. Certainly not one of his best friends. Pym raises her chin and her fingers tighten around Lancelot’s hand.

  
“This can’t be a surprise to you, you’re not that ‘beyond all this’.”

“I am here to protect you,” Gawain says.

“You can’t seriously think I need protecting from him after everything,” Pym says.

“You’re getting baptized—“

“How do you know that?” She demands, “the Hidden?” Gawain nods, “well you can tell them that is exactly why I’m doing this,” she says, “not because of Lancelot. He’s the only one whose not immediately telling me what I have to do.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever,” Lancelot says finally, unable to listen to them argue as though he’s not standing there.

Both of them snap towards him and it’s unnerving how similar their facial expressions are. He doesn’t let go of Pym’s hand, knowing it’s helping her. But he wishes he could so he could fold his arms or do something. Gawain doesn’t look thrilled that he’s spoken up but Lancelot pushes forward. There are many things he cannot control, he’s done crimes that he will pay for until his dying day. But if Gawain’s problem is how he will treat Pym, he can lay one thing to rest.

“You can’t be sure of that—“

“Yes, I am,” Pym cuts in, “I trust him. You trust him.”

“Not to marry you!” Gawain says, “you never wanted to get married in the first place.”

“Well that changed,” Pym shoots back, “I didn’t want to be told who to marry. I want to marry him and I don’t need anyone’s approval to do it,” she says, hesitating just a second, “except his.”

“When?”  
  
“When what?”

“When did it change?”

“I don’t know!”

That surprises him. He knows he’s been surprised, but Pym has always been better at these kinds of things. Mostly. When it comes to him, he knows she’s struggled. He can’t blame her for that. For him, the path has been clear. It’s always clear. There’s usually one thing to do and only fools think there is a choice. But for all she’s struggled there’s no doubt in her now. The way she speaks, the way she looks, even the way her fingers curl against his. All of it speaks of conviction in a way he knows is not an act. He knows though Pym can be indecisive, once she’s made up her mind about something she’s going to do it.

He feels an overwhelming sense of relief that she has.

He felt it too when she realized that they were friends and trusted him, maybe even as far back as when she kept his secret without any reason to. Maybe even farther. But now he can identify the emotion. He knows the feeling has a name. Especially when connected to her. She glances over at him and he realizes his fingers have tightened around hers. He looks at her and then at Gawain.

“You’re right to be concerned,” he says. Pym opens her mouth but he shakes his head slightly and watches her press her lips together, “I have no-one to tell me how to be a husband in the Fey way. But I know that isn’t what Pym wants,” she nods, “we love each other,” Gawain looks unimpressed, “I know that isn’t what matters in a match but it does to her. So it does to me.”

“And this business of the Baptism?” He questions.

“That was my idea,” Pym says, “I am not Nimue, I don’t know how to control this or work with the Hidden. I can’t learn with them in charge like this,” she bites her lip, “they haven’t objected.”

He looks over at her in surprise and Gawain looks down like this is something he already knows.

“We have Fey here who have been Baptized,” she says.

“They killed us to make us pure,” Gawain argues back, “in the name of the God you’re going to pray to.”

“That isn’t what that God is about,” Pym says, “the Church did it. They wanted our land. There’s a difference.”

Something cold slides down his back.

“No—“

“She’s right.”

They both look at him. Lancelot marvels at how she manages to spit the truth out that. It reminds him of Squirrel. Deep down he knows it, he’s always known it, but hearing it like that makes him feel like he might be sick. He may have wanted to live in the illusion that this was to cleanse his people, that he was doing it to make them see the light. To feel his Grace. But it wasn’t about that. If it had been, there would have been less death. It’s taken months but Pym has learned and accepted the teachings. So has Squirrel. And though he’s hidden his Faith, when he’s been caught praying no-one has punished him for it. Their crusade was never about saving anyone.

It was about land. Land and power.

“Lancelot?” He meets her concerned look.

“You’re right,” he repeats, “it wasn’t about saving anyone. It never was,” he looks at Gawain, “the Baptism is to help with the Hidden, not because I’m forcing her into my Faith,” Gawain still looks, at best, annoyed, “she saved me.”

“He saved me too,” Pym says. Gawain looks surprised. Lancelot knows how she feels but the declaration catches him off guard, “you’re right. I didn’t want to get married or have that choice made for me. You don’t know what it’s like to have everyone make those choices for you. To be told you’re only worth how pretty you are or your dowery or your ability to bear sons. Or just to be quiet because you’re not powerful or brave or able to do the things that others can. Lancelot’s never treated me like that, even when he could have. Even when I’ve done things that upset him. I wouldn’t be who I am if we hadn’t met.”

“You know it won’t be easy.”

“If I wanted things to be easy I would have married Aaron,” she says, “but it would be easier if you didn’t blame him for something we both want.”

Gawain sighs.

“You both should ask for Guinevere’s blessing,” he says. Pym raises an eyebrow, “not permission, but you’re her subjects. It’s—“ he looks at Pym.

“Tradition?”

“Polite,” he says, “not every tradition is disrespectful.”

“And your blessing?” Lancelot asks. Pym glances at him but doesn’t object.  
  
“Are you asking for it?”

“Yes,” he says. Pym looks from him to Gawain and nods.

Gawain gives them both hard looks that make him look even more human before he seems to soften a bit and Lancelot finds he can breathe.

“If this is what you both want and you love each other and have saved each other,” he says. Neither of them objects to what he’s saying. They just stand there with their hands clasped, “will you at least consider having a Fey wedding?”

“Of course we were going to,” Pym says.

“And you don’t have an issue being married to a Squire?”

Pym rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“Then you have it,” he says and Lancelot truly feels as though he can breathe again. Gawain looks between them, “ask Guinevere’s blessing.”

“We will,” Pym promises.

“Thank you,” Lancelot says.

Gawain looks at both of them for a moment longer before he nods. His face seems to darken though a moment later and Lancelot turns to see Bedivere standing there. His timing is terrible, but Pym seems to relax at the sight of him. He’s clasping a Bible and Lancelot realizes what he means to do.

“Are you ready?” he asks. Pym takes a breath and then nods, “are they—“

“I’m staying,” Lancelot says and he nods, not surprised.

“As am I,” Gawain says.

Pym nods and Bedivere smiles.

“Then let’s begin.”


	40. Chapter 40

Her mouth is dry as they step into the inner courtyard of the church.

The times where she’s been in this place, she’s mostly stayed near the front or accompanied Lancelot to the smaller chapels. Those are where he is most comfortable. She knows it’s a vestige of when he was with the Paladins, though she doubts any of them were more devout. He was still pushed to the side. Now it’s just where he feels comfortable. Venturing further in has never been something she’s dared to do. Certainly not into this inner part. The more she breathes in the cool air, the more the dry panic recedes. She’s Fey, after all. Out here is where she’s always felt more comfortable.

A spring cuts through, she can hear the water. Even though it’s winter.

Lancelot’s fingers tighten on hers and she looks up at him. His eyes meet hers and she sees the worry in them, but she doesn’t feel it. She realizes that the worry has eased, that there’s a calmness she’s seldom felt since she became so much closer to the Hidden.

“It’s alright,” she says. His eyes move past her and she sees Gawain incline his head, as though he too agrees, “I’ll be fine.”

It takes effort to let go of his hand but she knows it has to happen. She has to make this choice for herself. She already has, in so many ways. But she’s aware of everything as she approaches Bedivere. Even though it’s winter and most of the plants aren’t in bloom, she can feel something watching her. As if nature here is also waiting for what will happen. She does her best not to focus on it as she walks over to him.

But she does spare a thought for Nimue.

Was this how she felt walking to the Lake? This odd sense of anticipation and the promise of relief? She’s only had the Hidden so present for a short time and it feels as though they will drive her mad. Nimue was built for them and for her role, but Pym knows that sometimes she felt that way too. She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders and stands in front of the priest. She forces herself to focus on him and not the men staring at her.

“Are you ready?” Bedivere asks.

‘I am,” she says.

He nods.

“Then let’s begin.”

Pym follows along the ritual, surprising herself with how much she knows. She half expects the Hidden to do something to stop her but no vines grow, Gawain doesn’t act—nothing she’s expecting. She doesn’t even feel her Fingers come as she makes the sign of the cross and follows the rites that Bedivere instructs.

Finally he leads her into the water.

The coolness of it helps with the heat in her cheeks as the water presses the white of her dress to her skin. It’s not unbearably cold, it actually feels alright. Bedivere doesn’t seem to mind either. Though she imagines she shouldn’t, she glances over her shoulder to see Lancelot and Gawain standing next to each other, both focused on what’s happening. Lancelot looks like he wants to leap over and stop her—actually they both do. For different reasons. But both of them wait and respect that this is her decision. She turns back to Bedivere.

He blesses her again, puts a hand on her back and forehead and guides her into the water.

She looks up at Father Bedivere through the water and past him to the night sky. Even though she cannot breathe, it feels as though she’s exhaled. Like something wild and untamed in her is settling down. It feels like she’s found some kind of balance for the first time in a long time. Not that she’s fully alone in her head, but it’s more her than it is anything else. It’s peaceful, in a way that she wasn’t expecting but she’s heard Lancelot speak about. Peace in a part of her that she isn’t sure she previously was aware of.

There’s a flash of gold through the red of her hair.

Pym can’t help but turn. She knows she should have expected the Hidden to be here. The gold lights dart through the inky water, circling and filling her vision. She tries to focus on the feel of Bedivere’s arm around her, but the gold lights take her view anyway. They demand her attention, no matter what she may wish.

In the gold light, there’s a shape.

It takes a moment to understand what she’s seeing. In all the spectacular gold light and carved stone, seeing a simple wooden cup seems almost anticlimactic. Out of place. But she’s sure there’s significance to it none the less. Though it’s silhouetted against the gold of the Hidden, they start to fill it and the cup takes them all. The light leaves her vision green in it’s wake but the cup remains. A wooden cup against the green light, though she knows anything wooden would be burned by the Fey Fire the green reminds her of. A single spark of the Hidden tumbles out and wraps around the cup, pulling a thin ribbon of gold light that knots itself over and over and wraps around her fingertip. She feels a tug, as though she could reel the cup in with a flick of her wrist. But when she tries to wrap her hand around the light, the cup pulls back.

“Find it”, a voice whispers in her head, ‘find it.”

She presses her eyes closed and there’s a tug as Father Bedivere pulls her up.

She couldn’t have been under for as long as it felt, but she gasps all the same. The night air is cool and wonderful as she draws it into her lungs. She knows she should feel cold but she feels elated. It’s a fight not to laugh until she sees the smile on Bedivere’s face. And even then it’s a struggle not to laugh loudly for such a serious event. But she feels like herself again. She feels sane. And that alone feels like a reason to celebrate even before all the other things.

“How do you feel?”

“Wonderful,” she admits, taking another deep breath, “sane,” she looks down at the skewed reflection and it’s just her own face looking back at her. No Fingers, just ropes of sodden red hair that hang around her shoulders, “so much better.”

“I’m glad,” Bedivere says.

“Thank you,” she tells him, wondering how the words can feel so inconsequential in the face of what he’s done.

Lancelot is waiting when she comes out. He doesn’t seem to care that she’s wet as he pulls her close, his cloak settling around them. He quickly checks her over and she can see he’s still not fully trusting that she’s alright. But as she exhales steam, she realizes she’s more alright than she has been in a while. When his eyes finally hit hers again, she smiles up at him.

“I feel alright,” she says, “I feel—“ she struggles to find the right words, “like myself,” she confesses, “I still feel them but I feel like me.”

He looks across her face and it’s a wonderful thing to see her own relief reflected back at her. Someone’s seen her struggle and has been on board and truly helped. It’s a strange feeling of not having her problems be less important. But at the same time, it’s not as strange as it had been before she met him. His warm breath fans across her face as he relaxes slightly as well and she nearly falls into his chest.

“I suppose I’m also not going to Hell,” she admits.

“You never were,” he tells her firmly.

She opens her mouth and then presses her lips together. There’s no doubt in his face at the fact. But if she thinks back across their relationship, there’s been very little doubt when it comes to her. It’s odd how someone whose been so scarred by the world can trust the way he can—can be sure of things the way he can. It feels like such a contrast the second guessing she feels herself doing so often. But when everything gets put down, she always pushes back with the things she believes in. She does believe in him. She has for a very long time, even when she’s struggled.

“Are you cold?” He asks and she realizes they’ve been standing here for a while.

“No,” she says, “I’m enjoying being back in my head without feeling a dozen other voices and desires in there.”

He makes a sound of acknowledgement and his arms tighten around her. Out of everyone, he’s one of the few who understands. She never expected to know what it was like to have so many voices whispering to you. How being in your head alone or at least with them being quiet would be an accomplishment. But she lacks the words to say such a thing in the moment, the silence is so wonderful she’s content to just linger in it.

At least until the first raindrops hit her nose.

She’s already soaked through but Lancelot seems content to stand there and just hold her as the rain starts to fall harder. Pym knows one of them needs to be reasonable before they both catch colds standing out here, but she’s loathed to move from the position they’re in. The quiet and peace she feels is so nice, it’s hard to worry about being practical. She feels like she can trust Lancelot’s warmth rather than insisting they go inside.

“We should go inside,” he says, without moving.

“I was thinking the same,” she admits, “but it’s so nice to just stand here.”

He makes another soft noise of affirmation that seems to cut through to her core in a very pleasant way. Or maybe it’s just the fact that they are presses so close together that any sound he makes she can feel in her chest before she hears in her ears. Either way it’s such a nice thing she doesn’t want it to end, practicality be damned. It’s so nice to be able to feel without being worried about her emotions being turned on her or the Hidden taking control. He looks down at her and it feels like it’s just the two of them, the Hidden and the rest of the world being pushed to wait somewhere else. She sees the look in his eyes for what it truly is. Maybe what it’s always been, though one of them didn’t know and the other was too afraid to name it.

She doesn’t feel afraid anymore.

So she pushes herself up on her toes and closes the remaining distance between them.


	41. Chapter 41

The kiss catches him off guard.

Lancelot touches Pym differently, but he has a frame of reference. He’s clasped hands with others, he’s held people before. This is entirely new to him. He’s not expecting it, no more than he expected someone like her. The press of their lips together makes his mind go blank for a moment with how strange it is. The sensation is completely disarming in a way that no light touch should be able to accomplish. He feels it in parts of his body that shouldn’t be affected, yet somehow are.

He sinks into the kiss, a strange hunger echoing in him for more.

Pym’s arms move from his chest to higher up and shifts the angle of his head, helping to close the gap in their heights. She presses harder into the kiss. He’s not sure what governs his movements, what drives him to part her lips, but the soft sound she makes fans the hunger to a new height. Her fingers curl in the hairs at the nape of his neck. He could stand there kissing her until the world ends. There’s a rush of cool air when she pulls back, looking up at him with surprise written all over her face.

“We should go inside,” she murmurs, a smile tugging at her lips. He nods, not trusting his voice. Neither of them move until she takes his wrist and pulls him to the covered walkway. He folds his arms around her again as her breath hangs in the air, "are you alright?" she asks. He nods his head, "do you want to do that again?”

He dips his head which makes things easier somehow. She pushes herself up, leveraging his shoulders to pull him closer. Without the water to dampen her scent, it floods his senses. It’s more than her scent, he can taste her too. He’s used to focusing on her scent as something grounding, but there’s no effort in it. He doesn’t need to focus, she floods every sense he has. He cannot focus on anything but her. His fingers curl in the soaked fabric of her dress and he feels her breath catch, forcing him to pull back. She chases his lips with a soft sound of protest, her eyes opening.

“What’s wrong?”

“Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head and pushes against him. They can’t be any closer together but she seems determined to try. He has to fight not to just give in again and sink into kissing her. She has never minded being held but she seems to mind his hands low on her back even less. He looks for any sign that she’s putting on some kind of bravado. She cups his cheeks with her hands, her thumbs skirting the edges of his Marks. They land along the nearly invisible scars that linger from the iron.

“Lancelot,” she sighs his name in a way that makes heat pool in the bottom of his stomach, “you didn’t hurt me.”

“Good,” is all he manages to force out, his voice almost unrecognizable, then their lips find each others again.

His back is pressed to the column as the hunger grows. He used to be comfortable with starving. He thought it cleansed him to live in the discomfort. But months here have changed that. He knows what it is to be satiated. To be full. When he feels the hunger, the desire to chase it’s satiation is strong. His fingers release her sopping dress to press into the flesh hidden beneath it. She’s always been affected by the warmth of his skin but it hits harder this time. She makes that soft sound again, the one that directs everything lower.

No sound should have such power.

Her scent shifts and he opens his eyes to see the Fingers tremble across her skin. But she doesn’t seem bothered by them, they don’t have the same edge that that they’ve taken on since she became a Summoner or when she’s upset. They’re completely hers. She looks up at him and he can’t fully stop himself from skimming his fingers over the blue-green lines. She shudders, her eyes fluttering and turns her head into the touch. Despite how swollen and flushed her lips look, he’s aware that she is outside in a sodden dress in the winter.

“We need to go inside,” he says and this time he forces himself to move.

She sighs in disappointment and he feels the same, but he knows that they have to go in. And she needs to get dry. He keeps his arm around her both for the shelter of his cloak and to keep her close as they step indoors. The desire to have her close is almost as overwhelming as the desire to kiss her again. The temperature finally seems to catch up to her and she shivers. Gawain appears and has the grace not to say anything as holds out a change of clothing.

“Thank you,” she says.

“This way,” Bedivere tells her and leads her off. She glances back at him before going with him, the need for warmth overruling the desire to stay close.

“I don’t recall that in your Faith,” Gawain remarks.

Lancelot glances over at him, surprised at the softer, almost dreamy tone he’s taken on again. Gawain looks more like Lancelot is accustom to seeing him look, more like he’s moved on from the world and it’s affairs. Lancelot has known this version of him much longer, and yet he finds himself almost missing Gawain’s anger. Even though it was usually directed at him. Before he can say anything, the doors to the church open. Kaze and Tristain walk in.

Lancelot’s eyes follow them as Kaze’s steps hitch when she looks at Gawain. A resignation flares in her eyes and her lips press together momentarily in a thin line. Gawain keeps looking at her as though her reaction has flown over his head. It’s only on her face for a moment but Lancelot knows for them that moment can be all they need.

“Are we needed?” He asks, drawing their attention to him. Kaze nods, “Pym and Bedivere will be back shortly.

“We’re back,” Pym supplies, her Fingers retreating as she secures her wet hair up. Lancelot can’t say if it’s practicality or comfort, but his fingers itch to take the knot down, “what’s going on?”

“Guinevere needs to see us. All of us.”

Lancelot sees Tristain wrinkle her nose before smoothing out her face, only to have it wrinkle again. Her eyes move between them, though most of her disgust seems reserved for him. Lancelot knows that the change in his scent is there, there’s no fully willing it back. But it’s more controlled than Pym’s. When Tristain catches Pym’s eye, Pym seems to figure out what’s going on. Not that Tristain hides it well. Pym blushes and glances away, her fingers curling in her skirts before she squares her shoulders.

“Why?” Lancelot speaks up, drawing their attention to him.

“Because she does,” Tristain says.

“There’s news of Uther,” Kaze cuts in.

“And the war we’re supposed to be fighting,” Tristain says, folding her arms.

“Enough,” Kaze cuts in. Tristain drops her arms back to her hips, “we’re lucky the Pox didn’t ravage the city.”

Tristain nods and looks mildly embarrassed at the reminder of the plague that could have cost them everything—if not for Squirrel’s quick thinking. Even so, it came far too close to costing him the two things he treasures most. Though even thinking that feels like an invitation for Father Carden to appear and take them from him in some kind of cruel lesson. Kaze’s eyes move to Gawain one final time before she nods her head and they all head with her out of the Church.

He’s not surprised when Pym’s hand finds his, but he is pleased.

  
It does challenge his focus though.

He sees Tristain’s eyes drag back again and he knows he’s not the only one affected. Though with him, he has the knowledge that he’s responsible for this. He has the memory of kissing her in the rain, of his back being pushed against the column and the soft sounds she was making. Focus is a hard thing to pull from that, especially when he glances at her and she smiles, her blushfh worsening as she glances away. Focus is difficult but he’s also unwilling to let go of her hand. He’d rather deal with the difficulty as they head back to Guinevere.

“We’re here,” Kaze announces.

Guinevere and Arthur are standing there and much to his surprise, so is Hector. He’s still shackled but the shackles aren’t iron. He looks over at them but the same disgust isn’t written on his face. Guilt churns in Lancelot’s gut as he remembers Hector still thinks they’re married. Married people kiss each other. If they’re lucky, they enjoy it. He realizes that they will be lucky. Though he’s never truly considered luck to be on his side in most things. He forces his focus to Guinevere, wondering how much luck he can truly expect.

“Uther and Cumber are going to be near the city in a few days,” she says, “Morgana confirmed they are riding nearby. I have Raiders out looking but I expect them to find ships approaching,” she sighs, “if that’s the case, Medraut’s information is credible.”

His head aches at the memory. He hasn’t forgotten the Druid is here, he just sorely wishes she wasn’t. He looks over at Hector who looks stone faced at the mention that this is her information. Lancelot wonders if his head aches too or if there is something worse. He has to try to see the information as just information, not care too much about the source if it’s credible. Guinevere focuses intently on Hector.

“Why is she helping now?” Hector blinks in surprise at the question, “you know her better than anyone here. Why is she helping?”

“Maybe Merlin convinced her?” He offers. Guinevere gives him a skeptical look and he sighs, “she wants them dead, I imagine. Uther and Cumber are threats to us.”

“Us?”

“The Fey,” he says, “them.”

Guinevere holds his gaze for a moment before walking towards him. Lancelot almost moves there but Pym’s fingers tighten against his. He glances at her and she gives a small shake of her head, focusing on Guinevere but not moving. She motions and takes Hector’s wrists, unlocking the chains and tossing them aside. Lancelot knows they were mostly performative, but the sight of them tossed aside makes him breathe a little easier.

‘What else does she want?” Guinevere questions.

“She wants to be in charge,” he says. He glances towards Lancelot, “she thinks she should be. Merlin only strengthens that.”

“Merlin isn’t in charge,” Guinevere says.

“But he wielded the Sword,” Arthur says.

Guinevere looks at him and Arthur gives a tight smile. Lancelot feels his gaze drawn to the Sword and he knows the others are looking at it as well. They have all accepted that Nimue chose Arthur to wield it. Since she gave it to him and he pulled it from the Lake, the power it seemed to give off has changed. Tempered. The Runes glow for him as well, something Lancelot hasn’t seen the Sword do for anyone else. Wether or not the blade has the power over Merlin still is anyone’s guess. But it is Arthur’s.

“The Sword is yours,” Kaze says, “you were chosen as the wielder, as Nimue was,” she looks at Hector, “the Fey say who leads them. She’s got no claim.”

Hector inclines his head but Kaze doesn’t leave much room for arguments. Lancelot wishes it was that simple. He doesn’t think Medraut will take Nimue’s choice into consideration. Things are already tense, given how the other Fey think of him and their blend of Human and Fey living together.

“If we take out Cumber and Uther, will they come over?” He asks Hector.

“I don’t know,” Hector says, “they may still have reservations.”

“Why?” Tristain questions, “if we kill them the problem should be solved.”

“We killed their families,” Lancelot points out.

Tristain huffs again and Lancelot realizes that something is different about her. She’s not usually short tempered to the point of blindness like this. Even she can’t refute their actions. They have every reason not to be happy about the prospect of them all working together, even if they are on the same side.

“They will come around,” Hector says, though even he doesn’t sound convinced, “if nothing else, the three Ash Folk are on your side,” he points out to Guinevere, “the other Fey want the protection of the Fire, now that they know it exists.”

There are worse ways to bring them into the fold but something about it makes him feel ill. Pym’s thumb brushes the web of his hand and he realizes that his fingers have gotten tighter. He forces his fingers to relax, though she keeps their hands together. He doesn’t know why this upsets him or feels wrong. Hector has the most memories of the Ash Folk, surely he would know if the lure of the Fire was wrong. At the moment they have more pressing things to worry about. Putting the Fire to use, getting the Fey on their side—none of it will matter if Uther and Cumber kill them.

“Are the other Fey safe?”

“They should be, they’re good at hiding,” Hector says, “if Uther and Cumber can be stopped here, they should be safe.”

“Can they send any fighters for reinforcement?” Kaze asks.

“We could send someone to ask,” Hector says, “but with the three of us—“

“If they can send fighters that would be best,” Pym speaks up. Hector looks at her, “it’s all of our fight.”

“The three of us should be able to handle this,” Hector says.

“I’m not sending the three of you out there without protection,” Guinevere says. Hector looks at her in confusion, “and the three of you aren’t going out there to kill everyone.”

“Why not?”

It’s a fair enough question but a look passes between Guinevere and Arthur. 

“Because your Queen gave you an order,” Lancelot says.

Hector flushes and nods.

“Of course,” he says quickly, “we’ll send someone with your request.”

“Maybe Jonah can go,” Pym offers, “he has ties here through me. I think he wishes to stay.”

“Morgana would be faster,” Tristain says.

“Let’s think about who would be best,” Arthur offers diplomatically, “I’ll speak to Morgana,” he adds, “I assume we need to find Hector a room without bars?”

“What about Jonah?” Lancelot asks.

“I think he should stay there for a bit longer,” Pym admits, “until we know what our next move is.”

Guinevere nods as they begin to disperse. Though it pains him to do so, he squeezes Pym’s hand before forcing himself to let go. She briefly catches his fingertips before doing the same as he walks over to Tristain. She’s still glaring at the map.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asks quietly. She looks up at him sharply and then her eyes narrow, “your Fire can be affected by your emotions.”

“My Fire is under control,” she shoots back through gritted teeth. He doesn’t let her off that easily, “I need air,” she says abruptly, but she doesn’t stop him when he follows. She takes a deep breath and becomes oddly small in the cool air, folding her arms around herself, “I’m under control.”

He nods.

“You’re upset.”

She clenches her jaw and he sees her fingers dig into her arms. There’s a sound and he turns to see Kaze has joined them. She seems oddly protective. Lancelot gives her a questioning look but she merely shrugs, unwilling to say anything for Tristain.

“I can smell you on her,” she says finally. Lancelot frowns, “you still smell like them sometimes.”

Lancelot frowns in confusion. Tristain glances at Kaze, but there’s a crack of smoke and Morgana appears. The silent plea she’s giving to Kaze seems to vanish as Morgana appears and once again she goes ramrod straight, her hands dropping to her sides as she glances away. Morgana brushes down her dress and pushes back her veil, looking between them at the odd tension.

“What’s wrong?” She asks and it’s somehow a question to Tristain and an accusation at him.

“Pym was Baptized,” Kaze says, “it’s an upsetting smell.”

There’s no confusion on Morgana’s face and Lancelot wishes sorely that Pym was here to explain what the hell is going on. He looks at any of them for an explanation but he’s surprised when Tristain is the one to push back over to him.

“Paladins would take advantage of Fey women,” she says. He nods, “they would smell like that.”

“I didn’t—“

“I know you didn’t,” she snaps, “it’s the smell.”

He can’t fault her for that. It’s his scent so it’s hard to unscramble. And he’s the most familiar with Pym. He remembers being thrown off by Tristain’s scent, and Hector’s and even the damn market. Tristain is used to pushing through. The effect this seems to be having on her is stronger than he was expecting. It seems to tap into some deep scar for her. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out one of the vials Pym gave him, holding it out to her.

“It should block the smell,” he says.

She hesitates for a moment before reaching out and snatching it from his palm. He figures leaving her with Kaze and Morgana is the best thing he can do. They both know he was not corrupt like the rest of them. He always turned from the sight of things like that, it was his job to ride ahead and to track. Being involved in the carnage was relatively rare. But that doesn’t make what happened any better. Even with the reminders of the sins he’s committed and taken part in, with every reason he has to not be with Pym and she has to not be with him, when he rounds the corner and sees her waiting something in him relaxes almost painfully.

“I made sure Hector was settled,” she says. He nods, “do you want to talk?”

“No,” he says and kisses her instead.


End file.
